


Carpe Noctem

by LeEspionage



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, Asexual Character, Dark Magic, Dubious Morality, Fix-It, Gen, Heir of Slytherin, Horcruxes, Insanity, Muggle-born Culture, POV Antagonist, Period-Typical Racism, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Sane Tom Riddle, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Tags May Change, Time Travel, Wandless Magic, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-08-13 22:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 67,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16480832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeEspionage/pseuds/LeEspionage
Summary: When Voldemort died at the Battle of Hogwarts, nothing had prepared him to reawaken as Tom Riddle circa 1943, rid of his madness but left with a gnawing sense of defeat. Things may have gone wrong the first time around, but Tom vowed not to let the course of history run unchanged. He could do better, and this time... no one would stop him.





	1. Incipiat

**Author's Note:**

> I'm cross-posting this to AO3 - having started it on FNN under the same name. 
> 
> As the tags indicate, this is a time-travel story with a special twist to it. It is set during WW2 and will therefor hold some key elements from the time period. I've attempted to get as much as possible accurate, so bear with me. 
> 
> This is NOT a redemption story and the rating will likely change as the story progresses. Currently, I have more than 16 chapters written, 11 ready for publishing. Expect this story to be very long. 
> 
> This chapter, and all subsequent chapters have been beta-read by SemiRetiredAuthor. 
> 
> Lastly, I have a DeviantArt under the same name with character sketches related to the story. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

010101010101010101010101010101010101010101

‘thoughts’

“Speech”

101010101010101010101010101010101010101010

“ _AVADA KEDAVRA!”_

“ _EXPELLIARMUS!”_

…

The buzzing stopped.

The constant grating noise was gone; the sheer absence of the dissonance was a shocking feeling. His head felt… quiet. Clean. Bigger, yet fuller than he can remember it ever being.

He could think.

He was _feeling._

He fell to the ground.

Confusion. Utter panic. The kind of instant shock you felt when something unexplainable and undeniably horrifying happened out of nowhere. He was gritting his teeth in frustration, his heart hammering, pumping fresh, healthy and  _natural_  blood throughout his body. He could  _feel_ the difference. A mere twitch of an eyebrow, the flick of a wrist and the bending of an ankle. Everything was natural responses from a real breathing body. His own body.

He remembered his stint as a wraith. A bodiless spirit, wandering the forests of Albania. Even the simplest of tasks rendered unattainable. No feeling, physically or mentally.

'What is happening to me?' he thought in panic, clutching his head.

This was different in every way that mattered. Even the homunculus that he resurrected his new body from 3 years earlier had nothing like this level of sensation. He had been lucky to feel his magic. The dissonant buzzing masked the magnitude of his predicament.

He had thought that he had succeeded in regaining everything he had lost. Despite his many failings, the sheer achievement of having a body should have been everything he needed to attain his goals.

'What  _happened_?!'

It was now clear to him that he’d had no goals.

His head swam with thoughts. Things that had been buried under the increasing sound of the buzzing were suddenly attacking his every conviction. All of his misconceptions were unearthed, all of his flaws revealed, all of the protests he should have made were now clear.

He was fast realizing that he was rediscovering his mind.

It felt like he hadn't had a single coherent thought since the 1950s. Differentiating between his mind during the buzzing before and now was like comparing static noise to smooth classical music. There was no comparison.

He slowly struggled into a sitting position, his limbs shaking. He fought for control.

Taking a deep shuddering breath, he clenched his fist and admitted to himself that he had made a grave mistake. His breathing came harsh, but without complications. That was a large change in and of itself. He could now admit these flaws that existed within him. With that realization of the ability helping him, he was able to accept the outcome of his mistakes, the mistakes that led him down the path of losing his greatest asset.

His sanity.

He placed his face in his hands. It must have looked quite pathetic to passerby. Him, sitting on the doorstep of a rundown orphanage on a shoddy street, looking for all the world like a street rat wallowing in his own misery. He couldn’t even summon any sympathy for himself. He was the instrument of his own downfall, his own stupidity paving the road to hell of where he had found himself.

He admittedly fit the bill of a street rat drowning in misery perfectly. Perhaps the image of himself as a miserable street rat came so easily because that was exactly what he was.

' _How_  could I have let this happen?'

By losing his mind, it was no wonder he had lost so spectacularly. Defeated by a boy no less. Reflecting on the sheer amount of foolishness he had committed, he wasn’t exactly surprised by the outcome of Harry's and his final duel. He had known about their connection, but the buzzing had concealed all common sense.

He could summon naught but disappointment. Disappointment and _disgust._

He was disgusted by his own former inability to see. To  _feel._ To register his mistakes and correct them. He had thought himself unbeatable, infallible… when he had been anything but. Where did his genius start and his arrogance end? He wasn’t the kind of person who should have fallen into this trap. He used to be… stronger. Stronger and smarter, more ambitious and cunning than foolhardy and senseless.

He slowly removed his hands, his breath slowly returning to him after the traumatic experience he bore victim to previously. The moment he could feel his new body's reactions he had locked up completely, but only now after a horrible fifteen minutes of choked silence, did he look up from his hands.

It was like watching a memory through a pensieve. Everything was authentic, down to the smallest details, to the most insignificant sounds and smells.

From where he was sitting, the main street was visible some hundred meters in front of him, old vintage cars rolling to and fro among pedestrians in clothes that he hadn’t seen on muggles for fifty years.

It was surreal and confusing, and Tom Riddle hated feeling confused.

He rose carefully from his position, his heart beating more steadily now that the shock had abated. He noticed that his wand was fastened to his arm beneath his sleeve, like he used to hide it when he was younger. _Much_ younger.

When he had regained consciousness after his arrival in his body, he had collapsed onto the front steps of the orphanage's dusty porch. His mind has retaken control of the body, and even though he felt that his skin was looser, his head bigger and his limbs too flexible, it was undeniably an improvement. This body was very young.

He spent a couple of minutes looking at the house that he grew up in. It was clearly Wool's Orphanage, no matter how fervently he disagreed with what his eyes were telling him. He destroyed this building himself years ago, why in the name of Merlin did he have to be here of all places, and how?

'The surrounding buildings aren’t damaged either…' he mused thoughtfully, inspecting the obviously intact, albeit rundown structures surrounding the hellish shithole.

He soon had enough of looking at the unappealing building and once again turned towards the busy street. His eyes were still adjusting, but he could clearly make out the devastation around him.

To the left of a line of residential buildings, a pile of ruins was being steadily ignored by the people walking by. It would have been puzzling, if Tom didn’t already know why they were there.

He remembered this. He remembered when he was a young boy, sequestered in a bunker beneath the orphanage, feeling the bombs hitting the nearby buildings and miraculously missing theirs. Even still, they could hear the sirens, the screams, the crying and smell the smoke and stench of death and misery that permeated the air that night. 100.000 bombs and 410 people either dead or injured. The stench from that single night had lingered for weeks.

It had admittedly been a poor idea to return to the orphanage that Yule in 1940.

He had underestimated the muggles.

A couple of days later, on his birthday, he had picked up a newspaper and read about the places that had been bombed during the worst night of the London Blitz.

When that Yule break had ended, he was relieved to leave the war of the muggles to return to Hogwarts. Tom Riddle despised feeling helpless. It just made it infinitely worse that it was the muggles' faults. It was decidedly degrading even. He remembered how mortified he had been when he had returned to Hogwarts to finish his third year, expecting his classmates to make comments on how he had sat, useless and magicless, while the German muggles were dropping explosives.

They had not however. It could have been because they were more concerned by Grindelwald's movements, or because they were scared to ask him about it. Nevertheless, he was left be and simmered in the humiliation by his lonesome.

'I haven't thought about that in decades. It's like I had completely forgotten,' he contemplated, twisting the ring he could feel on his finger. The Gaunt family-ring.

It was not a horcrux.

Tom narrowed his eyes in speculation, studying the ring intently while running his thumb over the smooth surface of the stone. He raised an eyebrow. He could feel the magic, but the horcrux was not finished. Not yet.

His magic.

He closed his eyes briefly and searched within himself, feeling out the currents trailing from his magic core to his limbs. His magic was flexible, like a muscle ready for exercise, yet achingly familiar in a way he had forgotten magic could feel.

How could he call himself the greatest wizard of his time if he could not feel his own magic properly?

'This is pathetic,' he affirmed to himself, opening his eyes once more to take in the sights around him.

Based on the appearance of his location, the presence of his horcrux-free ring and the feel of his body, Tom concluded he must be in 1943, however absurd this sounded. In addition to the absurdity of general time travel, not only was he in London in 1943, his body was also that of his 16-year-old self.

"Why am I _here_ again?" After all, he had already lived this 'adventure' once.

The first time was not particularly successful however. With his head noise-free and his magic more responsive than ever, he could admit to himself that he’d started committing grave mistakes quite swiftly after entering the wizarding world. If he had known that he would lose these incredible feelings and sensations, he would have chosen differently. Picked other rituals, used different spells… made fewer horcruxes.

His own soul vessels had driven him insane.

Admittedly, he was  _incomparably_ unique from most wizards from the start, magically or otherwise, but  _not_ insane.

Furthermore, if insanity was not quite enough, his mind was supplying him with a delayed sense of mortification over the distortion of his future body. All feeling lost, all thoughts muddled, face unrecognizable and grotesque, mouth black and body emaciated.

It seemed Dumbledore had finally received the face of the monster he had always claimed was there.

The Dark Arts were incredible - but also incredibly damaging.

In all honesty, now that he was capable of advanced self-reflection once again, he was embarrassed and weary.

And  _cautious_. He narrowed his eyes in thought. If this was truly the summer of 1943, then his relatives were already killed, and the Chamber of Secrets already opened - and closed. Which meant that he had 2 horcruxes already in progress.

'This is really troubling,' he thought while moving towards the busy streets of London, abandoning the orphanage. He was wearing a generic combination of dark trousers and a shirt of questionable quality. Adding to that, his hair was in disarray and his clothing was covered in a light coating of dust from falling in the street.

The culmination resulted in the British muggles avoiding him completely, shooting him either pitying or disgruntled expressions while pretending they weren’t looking at the poor orphaned boy. Now he was feeling exasperated as well but determined to ignore the pitiful muggles. He really didn’t need this right now. The opinions of muggles were inconsequential. He just wanted to figure out what was going on.

'Time travel. Young body. Magic. My wand. My ring. My horcruxes.'

The thoughts flew through his head in a whirlwind – his intelligent mind shifting through possibilities, observations and conclusions at a rapid pace while he hurried along towards familiar, and preferable, ground. Wizarding London. Diagon Alley.

The birthplace of his many,  _many_ mistakes.

'I _really_  need to reconsider the validity of my horcruxes.'

A muggle man deftly dodged the young man slaloming between the sea of people, commenting rudely in Tom's direction about manners and his elders. Tom strode on carelessly, completely ignoring the offended muggle tossing expletives at his back.

He remembered asking Professor Slughorn of the consequences of acquiring several horcruxes, but he had thought himself superior. Too superior to fall victim to the average dark wizard's failings. He frowned thoughtfully, but his face then contorted into a scowl. Perhaps the reason no one had ever attempted it before, was because they discovered that it wasn't feasible with minimal negative outcome. _Moronic_ , really. He shook his head slightly in utter disappointment. The folly of youth, they call it. Apparently, Lord Voldemort was not exempt from this.

It was morbidly laughable - everything considered. He remembered that he had laid out everything perfectly. The arithmancy had supported it – The number of horcruxes, the time of their execution, the magically saturated vessels and the method of sacrifice. He apparently had not accounted for the flighty nature of soul magic. How could he? He had been 15 years old. Hardly old enough to make decisions that could ruin the consequential fifty years of his life.

How utterly embarrassing. He dodged another muggle.

'Perhaps the clusterfuck that was my plan for immortality and the outcome of the 'battle' resulted in this... situation.' He was not sure how, but he would not exclude the possibility. Magic worked in mysterious ways.

'Fucking immortality.' He did not usually make use of profanities, but he felt the situation called for it.

He eventually reached the Leaky Cauldron, which looked untouched by the muggle war going on around it. He needed to figure out where he stood. He didn’t remember the current situation in wizarding Britain in relation to the war. He needed information. He needed time to _think_.

And most importantly – he needed somewhere to be that was not a goddamn muggle orphanage. The teenaged Dark Lord absolutely refused to stay there. The sheer notion of him staying there was ludicrous. He did not care if Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore himself, who must sadly still be alive at this time, came  _personally_ to insist he returned to the establishment. He would  _not_.

The Leaky Cauldron itself was unchanged as well. Nothing had really been moved or redecorated after fifty years, so returning to the dingy bar provided a sense of belonging. As if magic had not randomly positioned him in a place he did not belong.

He looked around the sparsely populated room. The Second World War affected the wizarding population as well. Even though the most casualties were centred in main-land Europe, the muggles' bombs were disturbing the peace and so ordinary wizarding folk stayed at home during the conflict. Which was true, but _Grindelwald_ and his supporters were also an important factor in relation to the desertion. He supposed Dumbledore would see to that within the next couple of years.

Nonetheless, there really weren’t wards strong enough, which could hold for more than a couple of bombs, that could protect any place as long as was needed, so the paranoia was stifling the livelihood of the London magic community. Of course, Tom Riddle had never discussed this with any of his companions at that time, as they were completely unconcerned by the perceived 'power' of the muggles.

Tom _knew_ they were dangerous but announcing that opinion in the Slytherin common room was asking for trouble. He had been trying to forget it as well, which had become easier as time went on. His dwindling sanity had not allowed for more than a couple of key focus areas at a time.

'Shameful.'

'Senseless.'

'Short-sighted.'

He moved past the bar, not pausing to greet the bar-keeper, and entered through the brick wall passage. He still looked like someone had stolen all his belongings. Luckily, he knew where to find them.

He knew he had had no outstanding wealth to speak of at that point in time. He had likely abandoned what little muggle possessions he had at the orphanage, but his Gringotts vault did possess his school things, book collection, research material and whatever funds he had been able to win, swindle, 'find' or earn. He had not trusted the orphanage with obvious signs of 'heresy'.

'It has to be enough.'

His diary was not yet a horcrux, so the commentary of the past couple of years should be available to him. He needed to acquaint himself with… himself. It was clear he would be here for the unforeseeable future. Making himself look incompetent by forgetting recent events was not an option.

He stopped briefly in front of a shop's window to fix his appearance. Using a slight application of wandless magic, he ran his hand through his dark hair to settle it, vanished the dust on his body and brushed off his clothes to get rid of the excess smudges and creases.

Looking in the mirror-like surface of the window, he contemplated his appearance more closely.

'So young...' If he wasn’t completely certain the boy in the window was himself, he would not have believed it. His face was unblemished. His eyes a deep brown and narrow. His hair silky, dark and perfectly trimmed, brushed lightly to the left over his tall forehead. His cheekbones were free of any baby-fat, signifying that he was approaching adulthood. He was approximately 180 cm tall, tall for his age, and not significantly outstanding in terms of physique. All in all, averagely built and lithe, but undeniably handsome.

'And I remember my vanity was well-deserved.' He smirked lightly, turning his jaw slightly to the side to inspect his profile. "This is a fairly acceptable outcome, considering I was just recently killed."

He stilled.

Wait.

If he was killed… then his horcruxes were gone when Harry Potter succeeded killing him. He would not have left that plane of existence otherwise. It would’ve been impossible. They must have succeeded in destroying them all. "This is unbelievable…" He breathed out in frustration and contempt. "Bloody Potter and Dumbledore," he cursed once again, maintaining angry eye-contact with his reflection.

The humiliation just kept getting worse. At least he could keep it to himself.

Abandoning the flattering visage in the window, he resumed a brisk walk towards the bank, silently fuming.

01010100 01101000 01100101

The goblins seemed unconcerned by the emptiness of their establishment. Tom idly wondered whether the goblins had some kind of advanced protection of their building that negated the explosive power of a muggle bomb. He would not put it past the nasty little creatures to horde the knowledge of such a ward existing to themselves.

He stood alone before the tall pedestal of the only open teller in the chamber, waiting rather impatiently for the tired-looking goblin to acknowledge his existence.

He was not used to this kind of anonymity. It was rather vexing.

The goblin eventually deigned to squint down at the human over his piece of parchment. "Business?" he grunted uncourteously. 'Filthy goblin.'

"I require a brief access to my vault. The name is Tom Marvolo Riddle," the Dark Lord replied politely, staring at the goblin with a hidden desire to instil the appropriate amount of respect for wizards upon the tiny monstrosity.

"Key?" the goblin sneered, unconcerned.

"I do not presently have it on me," Tom admitted, twisting his face into an expression of slight regret. He honestly had no idea where it was. He could not remember.

The goblin handed him a piece of parchment. On the top said:  _'Summoning of Account Holder's Key by Way of Blood.'_ The title was fairly self-explanatory – as was the wide circle in the middle of the parchment, with an arrow indicating that the blood should go  _there_ , specifically.

The fine print – which he meticulously read – stated that a customer would only receive keys to vaults that are specifically keyed to said customer. If no keys arrive, the customer will be fined for wasting the bank’s time and its enchanted ritual parchment.  _Fair._

He did as instructed and poked his thumb with the supplied needle, and promptly caught the key to his vault. He thanked the goblin in a mannerly fashion, which to his consternation was completely ignored, and went to his vault.

There he found exactly what he expected. His trunk, school equipment and books, his old Slytherin uniform and of course, his diary. His as of yet completely ordinary diary. He could feel that he had started the ritual to anchor his soul to the small book but had not yet finished it. Ideally, this would take place during a specific time around Samhain, but Tom Riddle was not quite sure this was entirely ideal anymore.

His soul was essentially already split. Into a half, and into a quarter, but not yet separated completely. The intention of the final ritual was to tear the soul apart, which was admittedly extremely unpleasant, if he remembered correctly, which he was certain he did. His occlumency felt more reliable than ever, no thanks to his horcruxes. While small and insignificant memories might be unattainable using passive occlumency, pain such as that was hardly forgettable.

He absentmindedly stroked the cover of the small leather-bound book, trying to remember where all the small nicks and dents originated from.

'To what extent can I split my soul before it becomes a problem?' Asking Dumbledore, the answer would undoubtedly be; at the very notion. Tom Riddle was not so easily swayed however.

His forehead creased in thought, staring at the innocuous book in his hands, and shifting his eyes to the ring on his finger.

'Half my soul is in essence 'booked' for the diary, while the remaining half of my soul is reserved for the ring. This leaves me with a quarter of a soul.'

He had never really considered the ramification that his dwindling amount of 'soul' had on his sanity, as well as his humanity. It was probably high-time he did. If he wanted to entertain the possibility of success in any measure of the word, sanity was strictly required.

He had always had a very close connection to the Dark Arts, so resorting to the very darkest of the Dark Arts, from whence his horcruxes originated, felt like the obvious choice. Too obvious perhaps.

'The ritual is already in effect, but the magic tying my soul shards to the respective anchors are separate equations. If I annul the connection to one anchor, the other should not be affected, and the amount of soul that would be torn would also be unchanged. If the amount of soul that is torn off affects my sanity, would a single horcrux with a smaller shard not be more optimal?' Tom reasoned to himself. Obviously _not_  making a horcrux at all was  _not_ an option. He had time to search for other alternatives but risking his death in the mean-time felt like a precarious decision.

'If I sever the connection to the diary, my ring should conceivably only contain a quarter of my soul after finishing the ritual, leaving me with seventy-five percent of a total soul. Which is fifty times better than the approximately 1.5 percent soul that I had left before I was sent here.' How he had allowed himself to mutilate his own soul to this extent was beyond him, but he gathered the incessant buzzing of insanity was a part of it.

With plans made and a mounting sense of chagrin nesting inside of him, he left the bank with his diary, a bag of acceptable wizarding clothes and twenty galleons and eighty-six sickles.

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	2. Veritates

Tom managed to find a small, inconspicuous inn down Vertic Alley, where he spent the night and the subsequent morning reading through his diary.

The street the inn was situated on was short and possessed nothing of interest to the everyday shopper, but the bed was cheap and readily available.

Tom currently laid languidly on his one-man bed, idly turning the pages in his boyhood diary while reminiscing on the subjects his younger self had seen fit to share. The little book had been ‘heavily’ protected by at least three enchantments and a runic password, but Tom knew that _some_ things never changed.

Speaking parseltongue to the diary was the only safe way to unlock its mysteries. Attempting to detangle the enchantments just earned one a trip to the infirmary.

He absentmindedly licked his index finger before turning another page, his eyes roaming over the scribbles. _Parselscript._ It was more than exasperating. His younger self had undoubtedly been victim to the protagonist syndrome, believing any and everybody was interested in what he did and thought. While he was not opposed to believing himself far more important than the people around him, he was not foolish enough to believe that everyone agreed. He might be a narcissist, but he was also capable of being rational.

He supposed that kind of wisdom came with age.

The Tom of the diary was currently reciting a situation in his fifth year transfiguration class, where his younger self had ‘innocently’ questioned the rules put forward by Dumbledore in relation to human transfiguration and its connection to charms and necromancy.

‘That was hardly subtle, Tom,’ he chastised his younger self in amusement.

Lord Voldemort had never become an accomplished necromancer before he was ‘banished’, though he had been adequately capable of gathering and summoning an army of inferi. It was not actually as complicated as one would think. For a powerful wizard, summoning a few dozen inferi was a simple matter of animation charms and a steady funnelling of magic into a ward stone, stabilizing the corpses’ continued ‘un-life.’ If a wizard wanted to set a passive trap, the most optimal option was to situate the ward stone on top of a ley line, so it could sustain itself indefinitely. Most pyramids and Aztec temples were built with that option in mind.

Despite the notes on horcruxes and a reference to the location of the Chamber of Secrets and the Room of Requirement, nothing of paramount importance stood out to him. His younger self barely mentioned any of his companions at all, and if any person was specifically referred to, the individual in question was either a Slytherin or a teacher. It was expected, but Tom found himself surprisingly disappointed in the boy in the diary.

There were no plans beyond immortality. No further ambitions beyond ‘forcing wizard-kind to acknowledge his superiority’ and ‘eradicating the muggle filth.’ The short-sightedness was astounding to him, and Tom continued reading the dissatisfactory recounting of his school years with a scowl on his face.

‘I can do better than this.’

He turned his heard sharply towards a sudden knock on his window, announcing the arrival of an owl, presumably carrying mail. Mail addressed to _him._ He couldn’t remember the last time he had received any mail, so the experience left him slightly flummoxed, until he remembered that his name was _not_ currently considered taboo and no anti-owl wards were active with him in mind.

He opened the latch of the window and let the little brown avian inside. The owl ruffled its feathers and stuck out its leg imperiously, if not very impatiently. It obviously had other places to be.

The Dark Lord detached the message and the snazzy owl promptly left. The green ink on the parchment was incredibly nostalgic and the dark-haired wizard carefully opened the letter and read his sixth year Hogwarts letter – again – informing him of this year’s booklist, rules and regulations and time of departure at platform 9 ¾. The Hogwarts Express ticket was included.

He smirked victoriously. Apparently, he was invited to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. With everything that had happened in the future, the irony of an invitation into the school was not lost on him.

With the letter followed another piece of parchment, which turned out to be his O.W.L results. Unsurprisingly, he had received outstanding in all subjects and extra credits for Defence Against the Dark Arts. He grinned, finding the entire concept humorous.

He placed the letters and his diary in his robes and left his room. The Alley was just as vacant as the day before, but Tom found that he honestly preferred the room. He knew no muggle bombs hit the magical enclave during the war, and the chances were slim that Grindelwald had urgent business in magical London any time soon.

At least Dumbledore was good for something.

He picked up a Daily Prophet from one of the stands and left a couple of sickles in the bin besides the stacks of newspapers. As he passed a shop with approximately one thousand clocks and watches of different shapes and sizes in the window, he noted the time was appropriate for an early breakfast. The Leaky Cauldron offered a mediocre selection of dishes, but their tea was usually acceptable. The newly minted student decided that that place was as good as any.

While the anonymity was still rather irritating, Tom did feel a heightened sense of freedom. He did not have to plan his arrival or escape. No one was planning to kill him. He did not stand out, and therefore could move anywhere at any time he pleased. He truly had a blank slate. A chance to reconsider his plans and goals, a chance to finally succeed.

He could take his time.

With a relatively pleased and relaxed smile on his lips, he arrived at the Leaky Cauldron and ordered a proper English Breakfast and a cup of tea. If any of his future followers could see their Lord, sitting quietly and sipping tea while reading a newspaper in a pub, they probably wouldn’t believe it. This was very unlike him, but he found, as he sat by his table and enjoyed his breakfast, a small amount of peace within himself.

A lot of worries were washed away instantly. Along with the peace, a renewed sense of determination made itself known. His head was awash with possibilities and he couldn’t remember the last time he had the presence of mind to truly appreciate the endless opportunities he had to choose from.

The tea was also quite refreshing, he noted.

He idly wondered what would come next. If he truly decided to return to Hogwarts, he’d have to pretend that nothing had changed. He’d have to commit to a slew of limitations, which he found was more than unsettling. He strongly disliked letting anyone have any amount of power over him. However, he would have the opportunity to finish his explorations of the castle. Additionally, he determined that he hardly needed to attend _all_ the classes. Not attending classes would be highly out of character for him, but Tom found that he hardly cared. He knew which relationships were important to nurture and which were wastes of his valuable time and effort.

A sly thought wormed itself into the front of his mind, prompting a devilish grin. Could he perhaps do something to make his stay at Hogwarts more entertaining? More than likely.

His future followers might benefit from a change in schedule.

“Riddle?”

Someone interrupted his musings.

The future Dark Lord of Britain stopped smiling and lifted his eyes from his paper, fixing an annoyed stare at the person in front of his table. The boy flinched and lowered his gaze to the floor.

Had this boy just _dared_ calling him by that name?

He quickly reigned in his annoyance however. Of course, they’d call him that. He wasn’t Lord Voldemort – yet.

The boy fidgeted uncomfortably in front of him. Apparently, he hadn’t anticipated being correct. A younger boy was standing a little way behind him, looking curious.

He casually folded his paper and decided to get this over with. It was the 19th of August. He might as well become accustomed to people interacting with him before September 1st.

He entwined his hands on the table and raised an eyebrow at the yet youthful face of a sandy-haired Mathias Nott – silently demanding he got on with it. An interesting thing about Occlumency – competency meant that one rarely, if ever, forgot a face. Mathias Nott was a Slytherin in his year and he seemed to recall that the boy wasn’t a regular near his side of the Slytherin table. Hardly remarkable. A future relative of his, however, Thaddeus Nott, became one of his most ‘trusted’ followers years later.

Nott’s face was guarded, but his eyes spoke of general confusion. Entering the surface of his mind revealed that Nott hadn’t initially believed that Tom was, in fact, himself, since he had been smiling so uncharacteristically. He also seemed surprised to see him there. Tom emphasized. He was quite surprised to be there as well after all.

As it seemed Nott wasn’t prepared to answer, Tom impatiently elaborated upon his silent demand.

“What can I do for you, Nott?” Both knew that Tom wasn’t asking to be helpful.

Nott swallowed. He had obviously decided to commit to the situation.

“I was surprised to see you,” he paused briefly. “Do you have business in the Alley?” he uttered out as an afterthought, attempting to engage Tom in small talk. Tom didn’t do small talk.

“I’m staying here for the unforeseeable future,” the dark wizard told him simply, his tone not offering any details. Nott’s lips thinned.

“I thought you had to stay at that muggle orphanage?” Nott asked, uncomfortable.  

“The muggles can hardly stop me from leaving,” Tom drawled dismissively.

Nott slowly nodded, looking like he wanted to ask further questions, but his little companion saw the lull in the conversation and pounced like a Nifler on the opportunity to speak.

“ _Tom_ Riddle, is it? Is it true you caught the person who killed that girl?” the small fellow demanded with enthusiasm. Tom was initially confused, until he realised that the papers must have published his name in connection to Hagrid’s expulsion. He seriously needed to meditate on his memories from this time – he couldn’t continue being surprised about everything. It was unbecoming.

Nott visibly flinched at the question, turning a furious glare at the younger boy, a silent demand to ‘shut the fuck up immediately or there would be consequences.’ Tom cracked a smile. Nott noticed and paled instantly.

“Yes, that is correct,” Tom admitted easily, drawing another flinch from Mathias. “The girl wasn’t killed directly by the convicted however, but by the beast he was irresponsibly keeping in the castle.”

“Do you know what kind of beast it was?” the boy prodded.

“Yes.” Tom smirked at the boy. “Do you?” His question lit a fire behind the eyes of the boy. Nott attempted to subtly discourage the boy by gripping his shoulder, but the lad was persistent. He took a step closer and pulled the adjacent chair from his table and sat down, shrugging off Nott’s hand in the process.

“ _No_ , I don’t. The Prophet didn’t elaborate upon that detail. I assumed the investigation was classified,” he trailed off in a whisper, eagerly participating in the discussion.

Tom’s expression turned pensive. He delicately thumbed his chin while looking off to the side, appearing as if he was considering sharing a crucial piece of the puzzle to the eager boy. Nott stood stiffly to the side, looking between Tom and his little friend anxiously.

Finally, Tom turned back to the boy, easily capturing his attention. Scanning his thoughts, he learned that the boy was, in fact, Mathias Nott’s younger brother Torben Nott, a second year Ravenclaw, going on his third year come September.

“If I tell you, what would give me in return?” he slyly asked. The younger Nott scrunched up his face in thought. He evidently craved the information, but Tom had never in his life offered information freely. The boy had invaded his table, so if he wanted information, he should be willing to pay for it, he thought sardonically.

The older Nott was visibly uncomfortable now. Apparently, he didn’t think Tom was _trustworthy._

“Ben- “his classmate started carefully, but he was cut off by a hand. The younger brother had had the gall to interrupt his older brother with a rude hand gesture of silence. The older looked flabbergasted. This was amusing – and curious. Another sweep of the boy’s thoughts revealed that Ravenclaw house had some kind of bet going on. Undoubtedly, the person who could prove the species of the beast, with proper sources and/or evidence, would win the earnings.

“I have an extra ticket to this week’s national quidditch match at the Unreliable Stadium. My uncle was supposed to join us, and our father, but he’s fallen ill. The game is Montrose Magpies against the Falmouth Falcons. The _Battle of the Birds_ , they call it! Game of the year, what do you say?” Torben Nott proposed confidently, grinning widely at Tom.

Mathias’ eyes snapped to Torben. He then started speaking condescendingly to his brother.

“Ben, I hardly think Riddle is interested in something as tedious and cacophonous as a quidditch match. The teams aren’t even anything special, it’s only a national event. Besides, Riddle doesn’t even li-“

“That is acceptable,” Tom said as he imitated the younger Nott by holding his hand up to interrupt the teenager’s tirade. Mathias gaped unattractively at the hand. Tom ignored him.

_The Battle of the Birds._ The name had sparked something in his memory. Several quidditch fans in his house had returned from the holidays, starting his sixth year, and complained extensively about the match. Apparently, the match had ended in an unprecedented draw, which is nearly unheard of in quidditch as it is, but what was particularly remarkable was the 150-150 score. The Falmouth Falcons had failed to score a single goal the entire match while the opposing team had flattened their adversaries unrelentingly. Nonetheless, the Falcons’ Seeker managed to catch the Snitch 2.8 seconds before the Magpies succeeded in scoring a final goal, resulting in a ridiculous draw of 150 against 150. Apparently, a lot of wizards had gambled on the match, and _nobody_ had won a single galleon. The accusations spoke of obvious foul play.

Tom spotted an opportunity.

“Suppose I went along with you to the match, would there be an opportunity to place a bet?”

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Mathias Nott was certain this was a bad idea.

It was the 23rd of August and Mathias felt unsettled. He was currently sat on a bench, his head cradled heavily in his hands. His younger brother and father were standing by the railing of the bridge, discussing the procedure of Floo-travel as if nothing was wrong.

Did they not understand who they had invited? Clearly not, he thought has he squinted his eyes at his brother in annoyance.

This was all _his_ fault. The little shit.

The quidditch match was set to commence at the Unreliable Stadium of the Isle of Sheppey, some kilometres east of London. The island was predominantly used as a muggle nature reserve, but the muggle authorities had approved of the construction of a pitch prior to that settlement in 1875, which meant that the stadium couldn’t be usable always. Instead, the stadium was set to only appear every second and a half month, and _only_ on odd days of the week, _excluding_ particularly rainy weekends. Since the math was unreliable, so was the stadium.

The Department for Magical Sports and Games had declared that the math finally agreed with the weather – so the match was called. Unfortunately, it has happened that they were wrong before, and the game had had to be cancelled mid-match because the goals disappeared. Everyone obviously hoped for the best.

This was all very confusing, but apparently the muggles thought their reserve was _important_ or something. He couldn’t imagine how their magicless trees and animals were more important than a national quidditch match, however.

He heard the deafening roar of the Knight Bus approaching, so he lifted his head and waited warily. The bus skidded to a stop haltingly, tires screeching. Tom Riddle himself exited the bus a moment later, calm as you pleased. The sight of the boy walking towards them felt like a bad omen.

Mathias Nott had been classmates with Tom Riddle from the moment he entered Hogwarts, shared all of his classes with him - sans Arithmancy – and he could confidently say that no person terrified or confused him more. The boy walking towards him was the epitome of dangerous. No one had said anything, but everyone in Slytherin house _knew_ that Tom had _something_ to do with the murder. In which manner was up for discussion.

Not only that – Tom’s magic was _ridiculous._ He had too much and could control it to an alarming degree for a person supposedly raised in the muggle world. He had seen him use that magic. It would’ve been a simple matter for him, but no one had voiced their suspicions. In Slytherin house, provoking Riddle and his group was synonymous with suicide.

Duelling with him just wasn’t worth it.

His academic excellence had garnered him the respect of his house, but his strength had sealed it. Everyone in the house knew he was born and raised in the muggle world, and of course the Slytherins had pointed that fact out to Tom numerous times during their first year.

Mudbloods didn’t belong in Slytherin. Tom was an anomaly. The black sheep.

Until he wasn’t.

It was an unstated fact in their house that Tom couldn’t be categorized as a mudblood, and so he wasn’t. No one spoke of it. He was the perfect student. A model Slytherin. Someone the other Slytherins should aspire to be like. Handsome, clever, cunning – dangerous.

His origin was a taboo discussion – mainly because no one wanted to entertain the thought that a mudblood could be _better_ than them – so everyone silently agreed to _not_ think about Tom’s muggle background. He supposed it worked. Tom fit in with the purebloods seamlessly, and they seemed to benefit from his favour –  Slughorn’s group especially.

Mathias stood from his position and moved towards Riddle. He couldn’t believe Tom Riddle was joining them for a _quidditch match._

“Riddle… good to see you again,” he greeted hesitantly. Riddle nodded agreeably, face expressionless. Even without a wand in his hand, Riddle was bloody terrifying. Why couldn’t they _feel_ it?!

“May I introduce you to my father, Marcellus Nott. Father, this is Tom Riddle, my housemate in Slytherin.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Riddle stated, offering a _friendly-looking_ smile while shaking his father’s hand firmly.

“I’m sure it is,” the stout man promptly answered, placing his hands on his wide middle. “I wasn’t expecting to have guests join us on our outing today. Which team do you support? I am personally inclined towards the Magpies. Their new keeper is a tad old, but very experienced!” the man rambled on brightly. The Slytherin’s smile was accommodating.

Riddle seemed to charm his father effortlessly.

“I do not presently support any of the teams. I do however plan to place a bet on the outcome,” Riddle informed his father amiably a moment later. His father’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Gambling, ey? I’m sorry to say that minors usually aren’t allowed to place bets,” said the man regretfully, shooting Riddle a look of pity. Riddle’s smile widened.

“Well, sir, I was hoping we could work something out between us.”

“You want me to place a _bet_ for you?” His father’s brows furrowed.

“I will supply the funds. In truth, the amount is very small. I would greatly appreciate it if you would do me this favour.” Riddle stared his father directly in the eyes – unnervingly.

This was unheard of. His father was about to answer – presumably to decline Riddle’s ridiculous proposition – but the man’s eyes widened minutely before settling in a vaguely dazed expression. ‘ _What?’_

“Well, as long as the bet is small, I don’t see why not. All young wizards should be responsible for their own money eventually, after all. You seem like a responsible sort.” His father agreed happily. He had only _just_ met him!

Mathias looked at Riddle suspiciously. His wand wasn’t in his hand and he saw no potion vials or artefacts in the vicinity of his person. He would’ve confronted him, but he wasn’t suicidal.

The four of them exchanged a few more pleasantries, before walking towards a set of iron stairs, moving slightly below the belly of the bridge and onto a small platform.

His father tapped his wand towards a certain, uncharacteristically shiny nut on the pillar, prompting the metal to fold inwards, exposing the hidden entrance. In order to go to the Unreliable Stadium, one needed to go by Floo. The stadium had their own personal Floo central, which was the only access available since side-along-apparition was nearly impossible during such long distances and most people had never been there previously. However, domestic Floos weren’t sufficient in this instance, since they couldn’t cross bodies of water.

The bridge they were currently entering was the location of Vauxhall International Floo Central of London. One could normally not floo internationally, but a revolutionary witch from Puerto Rico in 1911 thought that was ridiculous and invented the Faraway Floo. This specific floo network was connected to floo centrals worldwide but required magical charging prior to departure in order to reach the distance. Unlike portkeys, one needn’t order a ministry approved artefact, which took weeks to arrive. Additionally, the price was far lower compared to portkeys. A Faraway Floo could be prepared in approximately four work days, depending on the number of travellers, to which one could only arrive at other designated Floo centrals. If your destination had no nearby Floo centrals however, a portkey was more optimal. Nowadays, every major city had at least _one_ Floo central.

They leisurely made their way towards their appointed fireplace. Mathias noted that their names and destination were displayed in tasteful engraving on the mantle. While they waited for the Floo central employee to supply the needed powder for the travel, Mathias noticed that Riddle was looking around in interest, his expression subtly curious.

Right, Riddle had likely never been to a Floo central before.

Riddle’s eyes then travelled to his, and Mathias _swore_ he smirked wickedly at him before dropping the powder and stepping through the Floo. He wasn’t sure what to think.

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The Nott patriarch had vanished off to somewhere to place the bet Tom had requested, which left him alone with Mathias and Torben. Before departing, Tom had been fascinated to notice the vintage Faraway Floos, with outdated enchantments that took days to prepare. How _archaic._

Well, he supposed they weren’t outdated, _yet._ Those Floo-networks were vastly improved upon in the future however, to the degree that the Floos could be set upon demand with only half a day’s warning in advance.

The older brother had stared at him in bewilderment earlier, and a cursory scan of his thoughts revealed that Nott thought him to be as culturally intelligent as a _muggleborn._ Which was quite frankly insulting, but Tom once again reigned in his temper. Creating a spectacle at the Floo central wasn’t optimal, so Tom had opted to reinforce Mathias’ rational fear of him instead.

“Do you gamble, Riddle?” the younger brother asked eventually, making Riddle look at him with an expression of disinterest. They were standing by a row of vendors, awaiting the return of the elusive Marcellus Nott. The man was taking his time – having to wait for people was aggravating.

“No,” Tom Riddle answered unhelpfully.

“But –“ Tom cut Torben off, _again._

“I don’t take unnecessary risks. Risks comes from not knowing what you’re doing. I always know what I am doing.”

Torben looked highly sceptical of this, but Tom didn’t care for the opinions of teenagers. He knew fully well what the outcome of this match would be, and if the outcome somehow changed, then the measly number of Galleons he wasted would be small a price to pay for this experiment.

Agreeing to go to this quidditch match was, in truth, twofold. On one hand, if his predictions were correct, he’d win a substantial amount of capital, which would be a boon for him later, when graduating Hogwarts. On the other hand, he might be incorrect, to which further experimentation was warranted.

Over the last week, Tom had meditated upon his memories and meticulously filed nearly every single accessible memory from 1939 to 1950. If the match ended differently, then there could be a slew of reasons behind it, but two were especially prominent. One; he somehow managed to change the outcome purely by arriving in the past and leaving the orphanage, or two; this past is fundamentally different than the one he remembered, and history had changed naturally according to some obscure magical happenstance that would make his memories of future events _useless._ Both were unlikely, but Tom expected that the outcome of the game would be unchanged. The Daily Prophets he’d checked from the last couple of years lend credence to his theory of a completely unchanged past, with expectations for a future likewise unaffected by his presence, depending on him keeping an uncomfortably low profile.

His plans would not – _could not_ – remain low profile forever.

Tom was more than likely the most powerful dark wizard presently alive, the current _menace_ called Grindelwald included. The title of Dark Lord was bestowed upon the most notorious of dark wizards, earned through _magic_ , and while the thought of earning such a title disturbed most people, Tom had been innately proud of his achievement – however unexpected it had been. It was just another thing that commanded people’s respect and set him apart from the rest. Once one earned the moniker, other powerful wizards could recognize the label on his magic. It was like an imprint on the fabric of his being. An addition to his identity. A powerful affinity for dark magic and a beacon for chaos. When one becomes a Dark Lord, their status is irreversible and recognizable in the way their magic interacts with other wizards and witches.

If he seriously started flexing his magic, other _less_ powerful wizards would undoubtedly notice the difference as well. Not to mention above-average wizards. They wouldn’t really know how to categorize the feeling as that of a Dark Lord, but a primal sense of fear was usually the result regardless.

It would likely pose a problem in the very near future. Dumbledore would undoubtedly realize what Tom was very fast – especially since Dumbledore used to be in regular contact with Grindelwald before the war, who was _also_ a Dark Lord.

A Dark Lord who was currently alive, powerful and _active_. Unlike Tom. He was trapped in a quidditch stadium.

The 16-year-old Dark Lord scowled. _‘Ridiculous.’_

While Tom had spent the last couple of minutes contemplating his place in the world, the Nott brothers had discussed quidditch players, tactics and broom models. They had attempted to drag him into their discussion, Mathias albeit reluctantly, but Tom wasn’t really inclined to entertain their ridiculous notion that quidditch was somehow _important._ He honestly had better things do, but necessity compels. He desperately needed funds.

“Ah! There you are. I had convinced myself that I’d left you near the popped corn, but I suppose my memory fails me.” Marcellus Nott chuckled while munching on his _popcorn_. He had apparently deigned to reappear before the start of the match.

“Tom, my lad, _this_ is for you,” The ‘elder’ wizard handed a couple of pieces of parchments to Tom, who took them gingerly and read their contents. It was a magical contract detailing the bet he had made, unsigned. Without looking, he swiftly summoned a pen, _wandlessly_ , which resulted in a yelp of shock from somewhere in a nearby crowd and a pen surreptitiously landing in his hand. Torben seemed extremely intrigued by the display, while his older brother choked on his spit.

“You just performed wandless magic?!” Mathias exclaimed in incredulous fright.

“Clearly,” Tom said, unimpressed by his transparency. The boy was awful at containing his feelings. Were all teenagers this obvious? Was he like this when he had been young and naïve? He hoped not – he has experienced enough embarrassment to last him fifty years.

Mathias was looking at his feet, his eyes wide with panic while his brother looked impressed and contemplative.

Tom swiftly signed the contract. While acquiring the contract itself was near-impossible for a minor, nothing said a minor couldn’t sign it. For all intents and purposes, the Quidditch Gambling Association were now magically obligated to pay him if he won, regardless of his age.

Tom smirked and folded the papers, placing them in the inner pockets of his robes next to his diary. He then turned to his companions and motioned towards the stands that were visible at the end of the vendor’s area.

“Shall we go observe this spectacle, then?”

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	3. Doctrina

 “Say Riddle, now that we are here… can you tell me of the beast?” Torben proposed diplomatically.

Tom leaned back in his seat. “Acromantula Araneomorphae.”

“… Pardon?”

“The beast that the heir of Slytherin supposedly sent to kill the girl – an Acromantula,” Tom repeated slowly, looking decidedly bored, his eyes taking in the stadium. He decided then and there that he’d never attend another quidditch match willingly. The place was a circus.

“ _Supposedly_ , you mean you don’t actually know?” Torben looked affronted. Mathias looked sick.

“I know only what I saw, which is what I told the Aurors. Rubeus Hagrid hid an Acromantula in an abandoned classroom in the dungeons. A dangerous XXXXX-class predatorial beast from the South-East Asian Island of Borneo. The Aurors seemed convinced that the death was near-instantaneous, which would be the case if enough Acromantula venom entered the body,” Tom lied – Acromantula venom was nothing compared to that of a basilisk. The basilisk had frighteningly potent venom, but it was also plainly redundant compared to the power of its eyes. He was rather looking forward to seeing the giant serpent again.

“Hagrid, the oaf, is the heir of Slytherin?” Mathias voiced sceptically. “He is a bloody Gryffindor.”

“Of course not, don’t be daft,” Tom sneered, and Mathias _cowered._

Torben shook his head and refocused the discussion.

“I don’t care for that, I want to know about the beast. What exactly is an Acromantula?” Torben asked Tom curiously.

“Acromantula Acriculus Araneomorphae. The giant spider the size of a horse, carnivorous, weight approximately 545 kg, average adult length measuring 4.5 meters, highly venomous and sentient, capable of human speech and breeds at unprecedented rates. Wizards actually engineered the beast using experimental magic, meant for guarding property with deadly efficiency.”

“Interesting…” Torben muttered in fascination after Tom’s explanation, staring at him with an awed expression. _As he should._ The thirteen-year-old then folded his arms across his torso and grinned widely, presumably satisfied with the outcome of this deal.

Impertinent brat. At least he wasn’t as cowardly as his brother.

01101001 01100100 01101001

Mathias was spectating something surreal.

They were currently seated at the stadium. The announcer was going through the introductions of the players, but the Slytherin was only partially aware of it. Torben was sandwiched between their father and Riddle, with himself seated beside his perplexingly calm housemate, who had taken to lecturing his brother on Care of Magical Creatures – _Of all things._

The discussion had started on Acromantulas, but Torben had asked Riddle about his sources, which had led to an in-depth accounting of several books, tomes and resources on magical creatures, several of which he had never even _heard_ of. And Torben just kept asking Riddle question after question. Astonishingly, Riddle answered _every single one._ He doesn’t even _take_ Care!

Furthermore, he had never heard the other boy speak that much. He usually never answered questions, barely even in class. Ignorant first years had come to his lounge chair in the Slytherin common room and asked for clarifications on their homework last year, and Riddle had spelled their mouths shut immediately. The firsties had to get their mouths reopened by the medi-witch, because no one had been willing to challenge his verdict.

Everyone had quickly learned that Riddle wasn’t the prefect to go to for help.

He noticed that Torben had pulled out a small notebook and _was taking notes_ while Riddle was explaining about the difference between the mermaids in the Black Lake, contra the saltwater mermaids found around the Caribbean islands. He recalled Torben had a summer assignment on the subject.

“Negotiations? One can _learn_ mermish?” Torben exclaimed suddenly in disbelief.

“The language is quite abstract, and you have to practice rolling the r’s on the uvula as well as know the difference between sixteen distinct h’s – but not impossible,” Riddle finished knowingly.

Torben’s face suggested he desperately wanted to know how Riddle knew how to speak mermish, but their discussion was interrupted by the blares of the horns. Apparently the first goal was in. 10-0 to the Magpies. Riddle’s presence was completely ruining his concentration, damnit.

01101110 01100111 00100000

The Falcons were getting slaughtered, as expected.

Tom would’ve been lying if he claimed he wasn’t relieved. On the off chance that the outcome had gone in a completely different direction, his plans would’ve had to be entirely reworked. While not completely tragic, his challenges would’ve definitely been far greater than what would’ve been conventional.

His eyes roamed the skies where the athletes were swooping by sporadically. Their seats were near the stairs in the middle section of a seating area behind the goals of the Magpies. From their vantage point, nothing exciting was really going on, since most of the action was taking place at the other end of the pitch, where the Falcons’ goals were being penetrated relentlessly. Judging from Torben’s, Mathias’ and their father’s expressions, they were satisfied with the current flow of the game, but disappointed that their seating didn’t offer prime spectating opportunities. Tom was really only there to win, not to _spectate._

Prior to their departure, Tom had researched the betting odds at the Battle of the Birds and found that – true to his predictions – a draw, specifically the lowest possible draw at 150-150, was valued at a 1000/1 chance of happening, which meant only good things for him. When he won, he’d take his contract to the ministry tomorrow and transfer his winnings to his Gringotts vault without anyone needing to know. He had already managed to subtly suppress Mr. Nott’s memory of the settings for his bet, which was conditional to his continued anonymity.

Someone coughed pointedly beside him, dragging his attention away from the seekers circling the pitch in vain. Current score was 80-0 to the Magpies.

“So Mr. Riddle, I hear you received an award for special services to the school this year. In addition to that, you are a prefect and rumour has it you receive impeccable grades in all subjects!” Mr. Nott sounded impressed but paused momentarily. “Tell me, how can a…  muggleborn, like yourself, have found the motivation for such ambition? Do you have any plans after graduation?”

Tom narrowed his eyes at the obvious slight, his expression turning flat. Someone had clearly blabbed about his summer arrangements.

That was against _the rules._

Mathias hesitantly looked at him, his face the picture of regret. Apparently, he had begged his father not to comment on his assumed heritage, but the older Nott had disregarded the advice. _Unwise._

But interestingly enough – he found that it didn’t _matter._

Tom cocked his head to the side and regarded his housemate’s father dispassionately.

“Great ambition is the passion of a great character. Those endowed with it may perform very good or very bad acts. It all depends on the principles which direct them,” Tom said with finality, and Mr. Nott’s eyebrows rose.

“Very true,” he nodded. “That sounds like a quote. Which wizard taught you that?” the man asked in interest.

“A _muggle_ by the name of Napoleon Bonaparte.”

Marcellus Nott’s eyes narrowed in offence, but he held his tongue. Mathias was looking at him in surprise. Obviously, neither of them had expected him to derive inspiration from muggles. He wondered if his former _younger_ self would have done so. Probably not. He would have been too ashamed of himself. Tom internally shook his head, once again reminiscing on his days as a foolish young wizard.

Napoleon Bonaparte had been a conqueror and a visionary, a fitting example to draw inspiration from, regardless of his muggle blood. His name has gone down in history and his accomplishments had shaped both the muggle and wizarding world during his reign.

While he still fully believed that wizards were indubitably superior to muggles in general, he had reached the conclusion that his success shouldn’t be dependent on other peoples’ inferiority. Be it muggle or magical – he would ultimately be everyone’s superior, reliant on his own prowess and _worth,_ and _not_ on his adversaries’ _incompetence._ As the famous wizard Aristotle once said; _The ideal man bears the accidents of life with dignity and grace, making the best of circumstances._

He fully intended to grasp at any mistakes and _accidents_ that he caused in his early days and _correct them._ One such mistake that he intended to correct was the flawed assumption that muggles, while magicless, weren’t _capable_ in some fashion. To be completely honest, the ratio of incompetence per muggle versus the ratio of incompetence per wizard were proportionally identical, in his opinion. Wizards tended towards outright illogicalness, while muggles tended towards excessive rationality expressed through their so called ‘laws of science.’ Do not even get him started on their contradictory insistence that God, who completely negates their newly found ‘modern science,’ sent a _wizard-like_ character down to earth, to save them from _sinning,_ of all things. He had enough of the Christian church in his youth and would certainly _not_ revisit his experiences with the priests.

Some time lapsed in silence, presumably because Tom had subtly but sufficiently snubbed the older pureblood, which resulted in an atmosphere of _awkwardness._ Tom couldn’t be bothered with awkwardness. He wasn’t really a teenager, so he decided to exclude himself from the social expectation that he should somehow try to _fit in_ and feel _embarrassed._ Tom was completely at peace with his character and wouldn’t allow a pathetic supremacist to belittle him.

“I can’t help but notice that you didn’t answer father’s question, Riddle,” Torben pointed out.

“About?” he evaded, once again observing the Magpies. 100-0. The Falcons’ beaters’ brooms were currently stuck together, and their chasers were chasing the opposing teams’ seeker, for whatever reason. The overall purpose of quidditch was beyond him, but the comicality wasn’t.

“What do you plan to do after graduation? As my father tactlessly mentioned, you are not from a noble family and therefore hold no seats in the Wizengamot. Mathias will inherit our uncle’s secondary seat, so he plans to enter politics. I am only starting my third year, but I already expect to enter some kind of apprenticeship when I’m finished. What are your plans, if I may ask?”

The young Dark Lord’s eyes stayed fixed on the pitch. “If you had asked me a month ago, the answer would’ve probably been very simple,” Tom muttered more to himself than to the interested young man to his right. His eyes met those of his young companion and he answered honestly. “I will be traveling, most likely.” Yes. He would be traveling, but the Notts needn’t be privy to the ultimate goal of his quest.

“Traveling? Where to, and for what reason? Kind of like taking a sabbatical, isn’t it?”

“You’re just full of questions, aren’t you?” Tom asked, annoyed but feeling oddly tolerant. The elder Nott sniffed and elected to pretend to ignore Tom, seeing as Tom had elected to disregard his existence entirely.

“I am a Ravenclaw. _Of course,_ I’m asking questions,” the young Nott spoke with a friendly grin that spoke of an obvious mischievousness that no one had really exposed him to since he was very young. What a novel experience – this _cheekiness_ that he’s being shown. Tom relented.

“I expect I will be traveling to other magical enclaves. Visit their libraries, their research facilities, their guilds… their schools,” Tom finished, observing Torben’s reaction.

“Visit their libraries! Like the Athenaeum of Alexandria and the Permitted Library of the Forbidden City? Wouldn’t that be _brilliant!”_ he gushed, the little Ravenclaw positively _drooling_ at the thought.

“Quite.”  

**01110111 01100001 01110010**

“This is quite possibly the worst run the Falcons have ever had. They are playing unbelievably below standard. I’m shook, pleased as punch, but nevertheless peeved by it _._ The Magpies might as well be playing against the stationary goals on the other end of the pitch, completely uncontested. It’s an embarrassment,“ his brother Mathias commented, obviously displeased by the ‘match’ they were witnessing. Torben supposed he was correct though. The Magpies had been steamrolling the Falcons for close to an hour now, and while the Falcons had fought for survival, the score was currently 120-0 and if the Falcons failed to catch the snitch before the Magpies passed the 150 mark, the game would for all intents and purposes be called. 

The Falcon seeker was circling the pitch again, changing altitude and velocity frequently, no doubt a tactic to disorientate the opposing team’s seeker. Both teams’ beaters were squabbling about the quaffle and the referee was quick to assign penalties for uncouth behaviour mid-match, resulting in the Falcons receiving a penalty shot, _which they missed spectacularly,_ to no one’s surprise.

Torben has given up on following the Falcon chasers’ attempt at saving their worthless keeper’s dignity at the goals. They were presently attempting to run interference, only partly succeeding. If the Falcons’ prime chaser hadn’t been as remarkably diligent as she was, the team would’ve no doubt already lost.

He chanced a look at Riddle beside him, studying his expression closely. He seemed absolutely disinterested in the game, his face revealing nothing but pure indifference to the proceedings around him. He might as well be doing homework, but Torben also got the feeling that Tom Riddle was waiting for something. The end of the match, so he could leave, perhaps? He wondered why Riddle decided to attend the match at all. Sure, he wanted to place a bet, but he hardly needed to be here to do so, did he?

No, that wasn’t quite right was it? Riddle was still a minor and so he needed father’s assistance. The legality of it all was quizzical though. Nevertheless, Torben got what he wanted and could now reap the benefits of the gamble that Florent Gladstone had proposed to the eagles at the end of the last school year.

He had all the answers straight from the source, his victory was assured. He grinned internally.

And what a source it was! Riddle seemed to know _everything._ He never hesitated and answered promptly when asked about academic topics. Torben had almost suspected him of making up certain facts, but when questioned further, the endless well of information that was Tom Riddle had an explanation ready for any doubtful disbelievers. He was incredibly intelligent, but while his well was endless with magical knowledge, he also had a definite _limit_ for questions he found stupid or otherwise lacking in relevance.

If you asked Tom Riddle inane questions about the weather, like his brother Mathias had thrice when pressed for conversational substance, Riddle would look at you like you were so far beneath him you might as well be six feet under already. It was both funny and slightly disconcerting. The key was to maintain his intellectual interest, which Torben was used to doing in Ravenclaw. Just not quite to this extent. Riddle wasn’t snobbish about his perceived genius – he was _cemented_ in it, unquestionably, and people were bidden to accept it or sod off, because Tom Riddle had absolutely no patience for incompetence.  

‘I’m not incompetent,’ Torben assured himself as he looked at his brother. He would have Torben believe that Riddle was an unstable influence, but not once had he gotten that impression. Tom Riddle was clearly a cunning intellectual who valued the same things Torben did. He made him want to perform at his best. Riddle should have been in Ravenclaw.

“Why aren’t you in Ravenclaw?” he blurted out before he could stop the question from leaving his mouth. Everyone’s eyes turned to him, and then switched to Riddle. The dark-haired Slytherin tore his eyes from the score-board at the random question and raised an eyebrow at him. He sincerely hoped that didn’t qualify as a stupid question.

“Because I’m a Slytherin,” the _Slytherin_ answered, as if that answer should be satisfactory.

“No. I mean yes, you are, but that isn’t what I’m referring to.”

“Neither was I.” Was he toying with him? Torben shook his head and looked at Riddle with exasperation, and Riddle actually looked amused for once, judging by the _very_ slight upturn of his lips. His expression told him he knew something Torben didn’t. Was he truly that bored?

“Riddle would make a horrible Ravenclaw,” Mathias interjected abruptly. Riddle’s demanding eyebrow was now aimed at his brother, and he seemed to shrink in on himself immediately. Their father had already returned to his conversation with an older witch with a ridiculously pompous hat in the Magpies team colours, so his participation was once again unaccounted for. It seemed whatever political favour he thought he could gain from Riddle wasn’t as appealing any longer and was now intent on burning his bridges. Riddle didn’t seem to give a fuck either way.

The piss poor excuse for a Slytherin hesitantly continued. “I mean… Riddle is a Prefect. If he was in Ravenclaw, he would have to mentor first and second years in subjects of their choice… and Riddle doesn’t, that is to say… they say patience is a virtue, but you don’t really seem keen on entertaining children?” Mathias managed to somehow end on a question directed at the aforementioned individual, barely managing coherency with his stuttering. Torben looked at his older brother with bewilderment. Why was he acting like this around Riddle?

Based on Riddle’s expression, he didn’t exactly disagree with his brother, but it was clear that Mathias’ overall worth to Riddle was lowering by the second. Mathias didn’t receive any further acknowledgement and the Slytherin Prefect apparently lost interest in the conversation swiftly, seeing as how he returned his eyes to the score board. 140-0. The fans who had shown up to support the Falcons were huffing in consternation, and indignant cries of outrage were directed at the players intermittently. A spectator had already been removed by the guards due to aiming his wand at the keeper, which was utterly disgraceful.

“The Ravenclaw assigned as my mentor is a lazy sod. I haven’t learned a thing from him since first year, the useless arsehole. I asked him if he could assist me with the Reducto curse before the break and he told me he wasn’t obligated to teach me magic beyond my curriculum. Can you believe it?” he complained.

“Why are you trying to learn curses at all, Ben? We start practicing curses in fourth year, before then the curriculum is based on the fundamentals of defence and neutralization of curses and dark creatures. It’s beyond optimistic to expect your mentor to teach you magic you aren’t ready for,” his brother scolded him.

He felt offended by the implication that he couldn’t manage his own development and was about to retort, but a voice cut in.

“What was the problem?”

The still mildly offended Ravenclaw looked to Riddle once more, ignoring how his brother once more selected to pretend he wasn’t present. The cowardly prat.

“What are you referring to?” Torben asked diplomatically, internally hoping that Riddle wasn’t about to taunt him also.

“The Reducto curse. You mentioned you were having trouble,” Riddle helpfully clarified, but his eyes were still distracted by the score board. By the concentration on his face one would think he had suddenly developed an interest in quidditch during the past five minutes.

“The curse didn’t seem to really _reach_ my target…” he mumbled despondently.

“There could be a variety of reasons for that. I assume you looked up the proper execution of the curse, so unless you’re too weak magically to perform it, which I highly doubt, then it’s likely you’re either not performing the spell correctly, or you have fallen victim to the common mistakes most fourth year students encounter when they commence the practice of destructive spells,” Tom Riddle informed him. Their father had stopped his conversation to listen to Riddle as well, but the Slytherin’s eyes were still glued to the board.

“I am certain I’m performing it correctly! I demonstrated the technique for mother and father, and they said it was flawless… but when I add magic to the equation... it just falls short of my target. Sometimes it whirls _around_ it – it’s maddening!”

“Ah,” the object of his fascination responded, sounding as if he had solved the mystery then and there. He still didn’t look like he cared at all, but at least they were getting somewhere.

“You don’t want to hit the target,” Riddle informed him, his eyes trailing the Falcon seeker like a hawk tracking its prey.

Torben looked at Riddle like he was telling him that he had used the wrong end of his wand. He turned his head to Mathias in search of help but received none. Completely useless. His father was similarly unresponsive but looked as if he knew what Riddle was talking about but waiting for the older boy to continue.

“I’m not an idiot Riddle, I know how to aim at a target,” Torben responded heatedly.

“And I hate repeating myself,” Riddle said with ill-hidden disdain. “You will listen to me or you will receive no further instruction. Am I being clear?” the Slytherin hissed softly, and Torben could only nod, properly chastised. Who knew Riddle was a disciplinarian?

“You are aiming, calling the curse and implementing the magic, but your intent is _lacking.”_ He let that sink in for a moment, presumably to make him feel like an imbecile, and then continued, still not offering eye-contact.

“As a proper Ravenclaw, you are focusing too heavily on the objective control aspects of spell-casting, which is important, do mind, but effectively futile when your will isn’t in it. Aside from that, as I previously alluded to, you have let yourself fall victim to a common mistake. You are practicing a _curse_ ,” Riddle stressed softly and continued. “It is vastly different to practicing most charms or jinxes. You _want_ to lift the quill into the air, and so you succeed. You _want_ to transfigure a thimble into a brass button, and so it becomes a button. “

Riddle finally spared him a look.

“You don’t want to cut something open with a Reducto curse, and so you’re not.” His eyes returned to the game, the seekers seemed to have finally caught sight of the snitch.

“Your magic follows your will first, and your skill second.” Tom Riddle’s parting words of wisdom were drowning in the excitement in the stadium. Torben was torn between feeling enlightened and discouraged. His father looked thoughtful for a moment, but evidently decided to join in on the surrounding enthusiasm soon after.

The Reducto curse was a low to medium level difficulty spell with varying demands for power in proportion to the intended destructive capabilities. He realized that he had had every intention of performing the spell, learning it and bettering himself by expanding his magical repertoire ahead of his peers, but he hadn’t had a want to _actually_ destroy anything with it. Could it be that simple?

“Could you teach me?” he blurted out thoughtlessly.

“ _No_ ,” Mathias answered forcefully. Riddle didn’t look like he appreciated his brother speaking for him, and the older Nott meekly offered his apologies, before lowering his head, defeated.

Riddle opted to ignore his brother once more, with practiced ease at this point, and looked like he was considering something for a moment, before his head titled slightly and he regarded Torben with a sideways contemplative glance. 

“Now that you know what caused your failures, you should be able to improve on your own. If you manage to perform the curse in front of me 10 consecutive times without fail, I will consider teaching you.”

Torben was stumped. He couldn’t believe Riddle was actually considering teaching him magic, but the thought was oddly exhilarating. The elusive award-winning Slytherin prefect would mentor him. _Him._ Now he just needed to wipe the stupidly baffled look off his face, so Riddle didn’t regret his decision. Mathias was managing looking stupid all on his own, and was shooting him and Riddle dumbfounded expressions, seemingly lost for words.

The remaining shambles of his brother’s dignity were saved by the orchestral music and horns that erupted without warning, catapulting the opposite side of the pitch into unbelievable hysteria. Had the Magpies finally caught the snitch?

He looked at the score board and had to look again, because that couldn’t be right. That must be a mistake.

150-150.

The Magpie fans were utterly speechless, which led credence to the fact that the unbelievable did in fact happen, and that the game had ended… _tied_ … at the lowest possible score.  

A few minutes later, the booming voice of the announcer could be heard throughout the stadium

“ _Galloping gargoyles_! My good witches and wizards… this hasn’t happened – and we consulted the archives hastily, certainly, make no mistake… this is unprecedented! A tie like this hasn’t happened in this league since 1838! The Montrose Magpies and the Falmouth Falcons are tied at 150-150, and they will both move on to the semi-finals come spring! Unbelievable, ladies and gentlemen, truly spectacular!” The commentator bellowed to the masses a moment later, all of whom were either elated by the information, or pissed off.

Steadily, even the excited parts of the stadium turned on a Sickle and erupted in cries of outrage, prompting the players on the pitch to be escorted into the stadium rooms fast before spell-fire knocked them off their brooms. The entire stadium was quickly descending into chaos and a look from his father, to his brother and to Riddle had him pausing at the dark-haired boy. He was quite possibly the only person in the vicinity to look undoubtedly _pleased._

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Well, suspicions undeniably _confirmed._

Tom smirked wickedly as he took in the anarchy around him. He had been worried that something might’ve changed, but it seemed his worries were unfounded after all. Well, not unfounded, but ultimately not supported.

‘Chaos in its simplicity,’ Tom thought, satisfied.

His companions were currently busy looking around worriedly. Wizards were flinging curses and yelling angrily from left and right and Tom had to summon an elderly wizard’s briefcase to block the jinxes carelessly thrown in his direction. Restriction on under-aged magic was truly lost on the likes of him and judging by Mathias’ facial expression whenever he exercised his disregard for the norms of magic, he was not exactly being subtle about it.

Let him gawk. He wouldn’t limit himself to cater to lesser wizards’ sensibilities.

They started to move towards the stairs at the end of their row. Tom had placed himself strategically between Mathias and Torben, avoiding the surrounding bodies seeking the same direction. Since Mathias seemed keen on entirely avoiding physical contact with him, he squished twice as insistently against incoming wizards, pushing them out of the way to increase the distance between them – evading his presence as much as possible. If it wasn’t so beneficial, he would be rolling his eyes at the display of desperation.

Torben on the other hand had placed himself behind him, having grabbed a serving platter from a discombobulated waiter, using it as a shield to fend off the masses, occasionally swatting conjured imitations of tomatoes out of the air.

He didn’t quite know what to think of the boy. He decided he would reserve his judgment until after observing his progress. If the boy didn’t manage to perform a simple curse upon demand after receiving instruction, then his efforts would undoubtedly be wasted on him. He didn’t even know if he really had the inclination to teach him, or the time for that matter, but the boy was young, and Tom had to spend 10 months stagnant in a castle, which meant he might as well occupy himself with past-times of _some_ kind. If Torben proved competent, he would mentor him. His exemplary curiosity was worth cultivating, if nothing else.

Whether the boy had potential for Dark Magic was another. Mathias hadn’t been incorrect to assume that he didn’t entertain children. If Torben proved too weak or immature to handle his teachings, then he’d wash his hands of him.

Tom hurriedly dodged to the side as an enraged older gentleman flung himself off the banister above them, aiming for the newly arrived Aurors, who expertly caught the man with a Leviscorpus and swiftly bound him to a pole, undoubtedly awaiting judgement at a later time. Quite a few people had already been fastened to either ceilings, poles or chairs curtesy of the increasingly present law enforcement. Wands were confiscated, robes were aflutter with struggle and the Aurors seemed capable of handling the rioters so far.

Their progress was halted once again by the announcer, whose face was suddenly being projected upon a large piece of cloth floating in the middle of the stadium, the colours and hues of the fabric changing sporadically to match the chaos in the background. Everyone stopped momentarily to grant the textile in the sky their reluctant attention.

“Ladies and gentlewizards! We understand your grievances, but we must assure you of this! We did _not_ rig the game! We are not keeping the money with which you gambled, because we have no claim!” The announcer claimed loudly, obviously sweating, his wand pressed pointedly against his throat to magnify his voice with a Sonorus. The screams of outrage were louder this time, interrupting the temporary calm with roars of “liar!” and “thieves! Those were my last Galleons!.”

Tom schooled his features into a mask of tentative worry, mirroring the people around him.

“Despite your misgivings, someone did in fact win against impossible odds,” the bearded wizard in the sky paused, took in a deep breath and continued undeterred by the cacophony of the many voices in the crowd. His voice shook. “We cannot claim the money, because virtually every single Galleon in the pool has been won!”

The spectators gaped at the cloth at the centre of the stadium, displaying their disbelief. Apparently, they had thought no one had been stupid enough to bet on such an unlikely event.

‘Well,’ Tom thought, annoyed, ‘they’re not incorrect.’

“In normal circumstances, dear spectators, we wouldn’t be inclined to share these news, but after a hefty, and indeed _very swift,_ debate amongst the directors of the British Quidditch League, it has been decided that the sole winner of tonight’s gamble on the _Battle of the Birds_ will be announced!”

Tom stared at the announcer with uncharacteristic dread.

He hadn’t foreseen this.

The announcer had once again managed to capture everyone’s attention and hostilities had ceased in anticipation. One could be tempted to think that these so-called directors had in mind to dump off the aggravation of thousands of wizards and witches upon him, dodging the bad publicity in the process.

Tom was thoroughly unimpressed. The situation wasn’t exactly a novel concept to him, but definitely unwanted.

He had hoped to avoid it for a little while longer, and not quite due to these circumstances, he mused.

“Consulting the Gambling Office, we received the name of the winner, and my fellow befuddled Quidditch fans, we were shocked to discover that a recent celebrity had decided to enter the competition tonight, dodging the age limit and common sense along with it!” the man enthused, suddenly sounding strangely delighted. _Wizards._

“With an investment of only 12 Galleons – _I know, it’s preposterous!_ – and ridiculous odds of 1000/1, _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ has won the full amount of 11.988 Galleons!” And so, the axe fell, and the full image of his person was displayed live on the banner in the sky, including name, age, house and _blood purity._

Funnily enough, he was listed as ‘undetermined.’ 

What a laugh, he thought sarcastically as he regarded his image with contempt. He hadn’t noticed it before but highlighted on a giant piece of fabric in the sky, he stood out like a sore thumb in the crowd around him. He was clearly not blending in as well as he had thought, disregarding this whole clusterfuck.

His skin was pale, his eyes as dark as his clothes and unlike everyone around him, he was not in physical contact with anyone. There was an invisible barrier of foreboding discouraging contact, as if the very air around him was poisonous. And while it very well could be, if he felt so inclined, it wasn’t, and Tom has to admit to himself that he’d rather appear untouchable, than too touchable.

He was clearly out of practice – blending in. He really hadn’t had such concerns for decades.

Everyone’s eyes were suddenly on him and he sensed the instant that the surrounding people refocused their malignant intent on him, but luckily, so did the Aurors.

_Luckily._ What was the world coming to, that he considered the attention of Aurors as a positive thing? He was already predicting an untold amount of irony to dominate his life.

The last time around, he had only achieved this kind of infamy in his fifties.

Why, if this wasn’t a new record.

Mathias was completely unresponsive, their father looked confused beyond measure and Torben was clearly wrestling with his emotions, showing signs of both bewilderment and excitement.

Tom remained unmoved however, his face expressionless. The masses of wizards around him attempted to move towards him, but the Aurors intervened, took hold of his shoulder and those of his companions’, and apparated them out of the stadium stands, leaving screaming hooligans in their wake.

Tom swore on the name of his ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, that he hence forth would never enter another contract unless his anonymity was guaranteed.

The only kind of publicity he desired at this moment in time was none.

_‘Clearly, the future isn’t as predictable as all that – A lesson I shan’t forget.’_

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	4. Absconditus

“Are you quite alright, Mr. Riddle?”

Tom turned towards the Auror who had absconded with him and smiled genially. Their party had appeared in what was no doubt a room within the premises of the stadium. The three Notts, five Aurors and himself were facing a window, looking out at the enflamed riots taking place beyond the glass.

Removing their object of contempt evidently hadn’t helped.

It was really rather ridiculous what money could do to a perfectly functioning individual. He had heard the muggle saying, _“money can’t buy you happiness”,_ but clearly the lack of it beggared insanity.

He didn’t particularly care about the impoverished people whose money he had won tonight. If he hadn’t been there to win it, it would’ve gone to the British Quidditch Gambling Association, which would’ve no doubt been extremely troubling for them – the association – in the long run.

One might argue that knowing the outcome prior to the game was, in fact, cheating, but the young Dark Lord couldn’t summon any remorse, or care, for that matter. People should be responsible for their own complacency. Their loss was no concern of his, and so they shan’t expect any pity from him.

Besides, betting against him was folly from start to finish, as they would all know soon enough.

“That… did that just happen? Tom, how could you know that would happen?!” Mathias blurted out frantically, pacing before the window and wringing his hands anxiously, his eyes switching their focus between the pitch and Tom intermittently.

Tom pointedly chose to ignore the use of his wretched first name.

The Aurors looked to Tom and raised an eyebrow. “Did you know that would happen?” the tall Auror to the left of Marcellus asked incredulously, if not a bit suspiciously. Mr. Nott senior looked skeptical but elected to observe the proceedings. Everyone looked to Tom, who had his arms crossed calmly behind him, visibly unbothered by the scrutiny. It was plain to see that the display of nonchalance only lit the fires of the Aurors’ suspicions, but Tom had nothing to hide, so he remained confident in his stance.

“No, of course not. Placing money on the outcome of this match was merely a little experiment of mine. Nothing outrageous, I assure you,” Tom told them honestly.

“An experiment?” the tall Auror repeated with obvious confusion.

Tom hummed agreeably. “Yes. Quite successful, if I do say so myself.”

He was indeed quite pleased with himself. It seemed the future was… fluid, in a sense. If one didn’t stir the pond, the waters would remain unchanged. Tom threw a rock at the pond and created a splash that would surely be felt for a while. The fluidity of the future, or past as it were, needed further analysis, however.

“Are you quite aware of the bloody mess you’ve created, lad?” The Auror questioned Tom seriously, staring him down with only five centimetres to spare. “We don’t have the man power to protect you _and_ the innocents trapped in the stadium! The war with Grindelwald is sapping us as it is, and this is really not helping the matter.” The man brought a hand through his hair and exhaled heavily, looking to his three companions.

“Lay off the lad, McKinnon – None of this is his fault. He was curious, wanted to try his hand at gambling and made a mess. It’s not like it’s a new concept,” another Auror drawled dismissively, holstering his wand and moving towards Tom.

“Lad,” the Auror began slowly, and Tom already wanted to shut him up.

“We will be escorting you to the ministry to determine the validity of your contract, after which, if found perfectly legitimate, we’ll make sure the money is transferred and escort you to your residence,” the man informed him with confidence, nodding at McKinnon.

“Sir, permission to take Parkinson and Hobday with me on this mission. You’ll be covered with the remaining two teams, I hope.”

McKinnon acquiesced reluctantly, seeing as there was no other choice, lest they risk an innocent young man be unjustly killed by quidditch fanatics. Tom knew he was perfectly capable of taking care of the mob of idiots himself, but his determination to appear an ordinary Hogwarts student outweighed his need to validate his capability to insignificant strangers.

McKinnon took the remaining Auror and left the room via the door, allowing a momentary howl of noise from the outside to pierce the stillness of the room, cutting off once again as the door closed.

“Fowl’s team is establishing anti-apparation wards as we speak, so we must depart from the Floo Central,” the yet unnamed Auror in charge told the remaining contingent, presumably consisting of Parkinson and Hobday.

The Auror then finally acknowledged Tom’s temporary companions and motioned towards the door. “This room is connected to the main hall of the stadium. You may leave whenever you like. The crowd has no interest in you, so I deem it safe enough for you to leave unescorted. We will remain with Mr. Riddle.”

Marcellus Nott squinted his eyes, replacing a hanky he had used to wipe the anxiety off his face.

“Are you quite sure? We were very visible on that flag of theirs. If any harm comes to me or my heirs, you will hear from me. I’m a lawyer, I’ll have you know!” Marcellus spoke with vigor, distrust obvious in his tone.

“Sir, we assure you, other Aurors will be present in the hall, maintaining a semblance of order. Your safety is as assured as any other spectator.”

“That is not particularly reassuring,” Mathias muttered, earning himself a stern look from his father.

“Be that as it may, lad, you are not their target and you have an adult wizard in your company for protection. Mr. Riddle is a lone minor and therefore unprotected. Especially considering the shit the League just pulled… despicable wankers, thrusting that kind of animosity on a _student_ ,” the man hissed, visibly displeased.

Tom wasn’t particularly pleased himself, so he supposed he could appreciate the thought, however misplaced the man’s sympathies were. Pretending to be incapable of self-protection was stabbing at his pride but breaking down their wards and fucking off in the midst of controversy would only invite further trouble down the line, so Tom stayed put and listened.

“Give us a moment while we ascertain the situation outside,” the Auror asked and Marcellus nodded discontentedly. The Aurors congregated in the corner to discuss while the elder Nott selected a chair by the left-side wall and sunk down, evidently exhausted by recent events.

Tom ignored the stress permeating the air and moved to stand before the window which took up a good three quarters of the back wall, displaying the stadium from a moderately adequate view point. The pitch was aflame, and the goals had disappeared, people were still squishing through to reach the exit ports, trampling and pushing and being obstinate, desperate _ants – pathetic_. They are quite literally managing to scare _themselves_ witless.

While the display was disgusting, Tom had to admit he was also pleased to witness the disestablishment of order _in person._ Lord Voldemort had usually sent his followers to instigate the chaos, keeping himself firmly in the background.

Causing it yourself, if only indirectly, was far more gratifying, Tom thought with pleasure.

Tom believed that the concepts of chaos and order shouldn’t be defined as clear-cut distinctions, but rather as a _spectrum,_ attempting to communicate the laws of nature to creatures fixated on control. 

What countless of philosophers had endorsed over the centuries, was a sought-after _equilibrium_. They called this evening of the scale ‘order,’ but Tom had always wondered, that if _order_ was the equilibrium – where did the element of chaos tie in? If order was in the middle of the scale, what was at the opposite end of the spectrum to chaos, if it wasn’t _order itself,_ chaos’ perceived opposite?

Was it simply the absence of chaos, as one would describe the colour black? Nothingness, and yet as much an entity of entirety as the concept of chaos would be?

Theoretically, wouldn’t tipping the scale in either direction from order bring chaos?

These questions had plagued him endlessly when he’d been young.

The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes at the screaming masses, making particular note of the people lying still on the ground, ignored by the stampeding horde.

As he’d grown older, he’d discovered that the scale between chaos and order was, in reality, a scale weighing only chaos, with a tentative equilibrium acting as the order element, holding everything together. The most dangerous dance of the universe.

Tom enjoyed tipping the scale. Acting as a magnetic force, pulling other people’s superficial order in unperceived directions, where they either hadn’t thought to go or thought they’d never be the ones to enter.

He enjoyed exceeding other’s expectations. Not to prove himself, or a point, but because his curiosity about the world was too infinite as to remain tethered at the equilibrium. Chaos was freedom, it was crossing the scale and searching for new places to go, new things to learn and concepts to shatter.

– Another person fell off a banister, hitting the crowd at the bottom.

He wanted to rip other people’s restrictive preconceived notions of order and chaos apart, tear it down and burn it. Every corner of his being sought chaos, not because he had an innate need to ruin lives or to shatter dreams, but because he couldn’t remain at the centre with everyone else. He was extraordinary, and _magic_ had acknowledged. The reason his magic disturbed others fundamentally, was because their magic wanted to stay static. Rooted and cornered, safe and in order.

Tom wanted nothing to do with this. He wanted the world to acknowledge the wider spectrum of existence, to taste life when out of balance, when it is most exciting.

To demolish the duality that they lived by.

– He didn’t acknowledge it when Mathias and Torben joined him by the window, looking wide-eyed in horrified fascination at the thousands of panicking witches and wizards attempting and failing to apparate out of the stadium with their children.

Magic turns dark when the scale tips out of order. Dark magic is inconceivable to the light order-minded witches and wizards because who in their right mind would want to be anything else than perfectly balanced? Sane. Ethical. _Obedient._

And therein lied the crux of the matter. Tom wasn’t brought up feeling balanced, protected or particularly ethical. He didn’t want to be, either. When he was younger, his inner natural disequilibrium had made sure to propel him into a down-wards spiral brought on by revolting insecurity, causing him to make decisions based in _fear._

Tom liked tipping the scale, but jumping off the scale entirely courted insanity, and Tom would have no part in it. He would rock the boat, determine his own morals and obey only the rules he profoundly agreed with, but never would he let himself sink so deep as to stumble off the edge. Again.

The thought itself brought a terrifying realization with it.

_–_ A team of Aurors and two dozen quidditch guards were attempting to quell the panic, having taken control of the pitch, herding the people towards the exits.  

Tom was very much susceptible to chaos, and so he, like so many other Dark Lords, were unwilling victims of the _heaviness_ that chaos brought with it. Tipping off the scale meant losing yourself, abandoning reason and aspirations and pure honest _defeat_ , which was the anthesis of Tom’s entire being.

He had failed to stay on the scale very early in his life, meaning his will was either much inferior to his predecessors, or his affinity for chaos exceeded most others’.

Decisions had to be made, and Tom solemnly vowed to weigh his far more carefully, lest he descend into the abyss once again.  

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An hour came and went like this.

A hand descended on his shoulder, bringing him abruptly out of his musings. His eyes trailed from the pitch to the hand, and then to the owner, his eyes conveying amputation as the likely consequence if said hand wasn’t removed _at once._

Torben retracted his hands as if burned, letting out a pitiful squeak in reaction to the deadly look he was likely receiving.

“Sorry!“ Torben uttered, placing his hands awkwardly behind him. Mathias moved to stand exactly two metres away from Tom, but within wand distance of his brother.

“This is… “ Torben trailed off hesitantly, his eyes looking back to the window.

“Horrible,” Mathias whispered. “I thought the panic was overwhelming when we were down there, but this… this is sick. People are dying down there… _Dying._ They’re being trampled to _death!”_ Mathias near shouted, his throat closing in on itself. The boy looked as if he was about to get sick.

“Yes, I believe so far I’ve counted 6 bodies,” Tom spoke to them, observing the riot. The boys looked at each other, and Mathias sent his little brother a _look_ that clearly spoke _‘I told you so’_ , but Torben huffed and turned back to Tom.

“That is not including the bodies who are likely piling up at the Floo Central as we speak,” Tom continued unrelentingly, cutting off whatever Torben was about to say. The boy looked undeniably conflicted _, but credit where credit was due_ , the fellow worked past his misgivings and spoke _anyway._

“You couldn’t know that would happen,” he said.

“No,” Tom said, his eyes as uncaring as his tone.

“But you clearly hoped to win, _somehow,”_ Torben continued, pointedly ignoring looking out the window, instead focusing his attention solely on Tom.

“Indeed.”

“So why did you gamble on such unlikely odds?! You told me you don’t gamble, but you somehow decide that the least possible possibility was the one you should put your money on. If you didn’t know that would happen, why did you do that?” Torben exhaled, shaking, fisting the ends of his robes. “Why did you do it?” he whispered.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” Tom evaded, and spoke. “Did you mean to ask if I knew the ending of the game, or the consequences of said ending?”

Torben looked conflicted for a moment. “Both, I suppose.”

Tom inclined his head towards the Aurors, noting that they were _still_ waiting for word from the outside.

“As I said previously, I don’t gamble. I came to conduct an experiment, which I thank you for making possible, truly, the results were beyond satisfying,” Tom said and adjusted the collar of his robes absentmindedly, still looking out the window. He continued before either boy could comment on his strange satisfaction.

“I certainly didn’t foresee this absolute anarchy, however. I had heard quidditch was a very competitive sport, but the sheer animalistic desperation I’m witnessing is absurd,” he sneered as he gestured at the outside. Both of the boys shifted on their feet, clearly unsure with Mathias looking increasingly worried.

“I see…” Torben muttered. “But why did you need to… ‘conduct an experiment’ in the first place, and why this?”   ~~~~

“Again with all the questions, _Ben._ Did nobody ever tell you curiosity killed the Kneazle?” Tom smirked at the boy, his words clearly also having a very profound effect on the Slytherin Nott, prompting a coughing fit. 

“You got what you wanted, boy, and I didn’t ask what you needed it for,” he stared the boy down momentarily. “Do me the same curtesy.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

Torben stared at Tom for a moment, his thoughts visibly flashing back and forth behind his eyes and Tom elected to let the boy make his own decisions without interfering. Eventually, the Ravenclaw nodded, his face tired, but set in a stony expression.

“Can I owl you?”

Mathias very nearly grabbed onto his younger brother right then, but the boy evaded and moved a step closer to Tom, loosely pushing his brother out of his personal space.

“No,” Tom said. It wasn’t worth his time and judging by the lack of surprise in the younger boy’s face, he also knew he hadn’t earned Tom’s personal attention yet. It seemed the boy was very perceptive, getting a read on his personality quite fast. Painfully young and _curious beyond measure_ , but not stupid.

And while his brother was clearly a coward, he was in truth even more perceptive – but not by choice.

Mathias Nott displayed all the signs of a naturally powerful young wizard. Most witches and wizards slowly built their magical capacity over long periods of time, their core completely stable between the ages of 17 and 20, with room for expansion, but some people, himself markedly included, were gifted with extraordinarily large reservoirs of magic from a young age.

Albus Dumbledore, Gellert Grindelwald, Minerva McGonagall, Bellatrix Lestrange, Severus Snape, Hermione Granger – all examples off witches and wizards who were naturally gifted with power and magical talent beyond the average. However, power wasn’t quite visible in the air around a person, so determining Mathias’ level of power couldn’t normally be done unless seen in action.

No, Tom knew Mathias was powerful, because he was affected by Tom’s own more powerful _darker_ magic, without Tom having to do anything more than being in his general vicinity.

Great power levels begot even greater sensitivity.

This was the prime reason why Tom hadn’t throttled the boy. Mathias simply couldn’t help feeling terrified, because Tom was a Dark Lord. The boy was confused, frightened and didn’t know how to control it, and if Tom killed every single person who was instinctively frightened of him, magical influence or no, then he’d rule on a mountain of corpses. That was simply inefficient management.

Tom had become desensitized to other people’s instinctive fear of him long ago. It simply came with the territory, and Tom could admit he didn’t find it entirely distasteful.

Looking at the boy attempting to pull himself together, the dark wizard thought the Slytherin might not be entirely hopeless. If only slightly.

“Auror Parkinson, please establish a safe path to the Floo Central. We will be leaving shortly.” Auror Parkinson nodded and moved towards the door, wand in hand and plainly happy to leave. He had the classic dark-brown hair known to their family and dull blue eyes. The man looked to be in his early twenties and was probably a newly integrated part of this corps. As the young Auror left, the still unnamed Auror in charge told them they would leave as soon as they received word from Parkinson.

Marcellus Nott stood up and moved towards them.

“Well, lad… it’s been an adventure,” the older man spoke to Tom. “You’ve earned yourself quite the reputation now. If you are need of any,“ the man coughed pointedly, “ _assistance,_ in the future, my owl is healthy and ready for correspondence. And then maybe, this time, I might also profit?” Mr. Nott’s tone was leading and hopeful. It would seem the imperfect suppression of his memories had worn off.

Tom’s lips vaguely shaped a smile. The fool thought he could earn money on him.

“That won’t, at present, be necessary Mr. Nott, but thank you for the offer. If I am in need of your services, I will surely contact you.” Marcellus nodded hesitantly, clearly perturbed by the phrasing.

“See you at Hogwarts, Riddle,” Torben offered with a shaky smile and joined his father who had moved to the door.

“…See you in Slytherin,” Mathias reluctantly added, before leaving the room with his brother and father.

Soon thereafter, Auror Parkinson returned, informing them that the crowds were thinning and deemed it possible to reach the Floo Central, where an emergency Floo connected to the ministry atrium had been granted usage.

Faraway Floos weren’t meant for traveling back and forth within a day, but if the distance was small enough, the magic could be saved for a return trip, which was evidently the cause of the impediments at the Floo Central. People had to find their exact Floo and wait for their names to appear on the mantle, allowing them to return to their place of departure.

Personally, Tom would’ve apparated, but most people couldn’t side-along apparate long distances, which created problems for families like the Notts.

The Aurors moved to box him in at three sides, one in front, one to his left, and one guarding his back. Auror Hobday opened the door and Tom seriously considered breaking the anti-apparation wards again. The noise was deafening.

Why was he putting up with this? The predicament only served to anger him, but the continued steady presence of his _Auror guards_ served as a distracting source of amusement.

They exited the room.

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The hallway they entered was long and not entirely deserted. The windows along the walls were fractured, and every vendor booth was trashed. The occasional witch or wizard could still be seen running or limping past them, and several medi-wizards were positioned along the walls, tending to people with bleeding heads and ruined, dirty robes.

“ _Put your wands away!_ The next one to cast a spell will get a one-way ticket to a ministry holding cell!” McKinnon roared from the entrance to the pitch, obviously still wrestling with the remaining ruffians.

The man was no doubt distraught by the casualties, judging from his tone.

The angry wizards were disinclined however and attempted to disarm the Auror, but McKinnon was far from incompetent and blocked the spells without issue and promptly disarmed them in turn, taking _special care_ of the now crying individual who threw the first curse.

“No time for sight-seeing Mr. Riddle, we must take you to the Central,” Hobday spoke urgently and moved to take hold of his shoulder.

Tom could admit he might have overreacted.

As the Auror’s hand made contact, a low-powered shock of electric power rushed through the man, causing Hobday to yelp in fright and pain, staggering back a couple of steps as he examined his trembling hand.

“What in the bloody hell?!” he yelled at him.

“You startled me. My apologies,” Tom said insincerely, unconcerned by the hostility. This was the second person who’d tried to grab unto him that day and Tom didn’t feel the need to be gentle with the Auror like he had been with Torben. He hoped people would eventually get the message. 

Hobday gritted his teeth, but the unnamed Auror told him to get over it and back into position and Hobday reluctantly did so, plainly avoiding physical contact. The young dark wizard smirked lightly in satisfaction.

They started moving down the hall, his _Auror guards_ making swift work of stragglers who attempted to block their passage to the Central. Hobday’s hand was still slightly trembling, which might’ve been why a wizard, who had clearly succeeded breaking through McKinnon’s blockade, somehow evaded Hobday’s guard at his back and dodged several curses before nearly reaching him.

Tom saw it coming, but he couldn’t use his wand.

“ _You! –_ You filthy, _thieving_ little shit! That is _my_ bloody money you’ve stolen! Give me your fucking contract, you _ingrate_!” the wizard screamed at him crazily, eyes wild with desperation. His light brown robes were covered in dirt and dark stains, his lip was split, and his hair was in complete disarray. The man’s wand was clenched hard in his hand, knuckles white with the force of his grip.

The wand was centimetres from reaching his throat, the tip already alight with the promise of pain.   

“Mr. Riddle!”

Before the Aurors could properly react to the invader, Tom narrowed his eyes in concentration, turned towards his attacker and _pushed_ the man away with a powerful shove of magic directed from his palm. The man’s breath left him as his feet left the ground – propelled cripplingly hard into a concrete wall. The would-be assailant’s head impacted with a crack, his body bouncing off the wall to lie groaning on the floor.

There was a moment of incredulous silence, only interrupted by the pathetic moaning of the no-doubt injured wizard. Tom repositioned himself and placed his hands in his pockets, decidedly unimpressed.

Another few seconds brought a reaction from the Aurors.

“Lad… your accidental magic is something else,” Hobday spoke in a strangled voice. Even McKinnon had stopped to witness the scene, having pursued the attacker before Tom got to him.

Tom purposefully neglected to remind them of the fact that people usually stopped producing accidental magic after having entered puberty but acknowledged that he didn’t really want to consider alternative explanations. He’d leave them with their assumptions.

After his _guards_ succeeded in recovering a modicum of professionalism, the Aurors resumed escorting him to the Floo Central, leaving the medi-wizards to salvage the remains of the first idiot to aim his wand at him since he returned to this time.

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He had been correct.

Several dead bodies were sprawled on the floor near the entrance to the Floo Central, making it quite the hassle to walk through the door without disturbing them. The Aurors called it a crime scene, but Tom called it obstruction. If they didn’t want people to step on their corpses, they should deposit them elsewhere, in his personal opinion. Some of the bodies had more than likely caused a fatal impediment for the fleeing spectators, surely expanding the pile in the process.

The Aurors hadn’t seemed to appreciate his advice and shot him some disapproving looks, which ceased when they saw that their disapproval had no effect on his outlook on the matter. Evidently giving up on a lost cause, they instead continued leading him to a side room in the Floo Central hall, uncovering the preset ministry connected fireplace.

“Auror Parkinson will go first, then Auror Hobday, followed by Mr. Riddle and lastly myself. If circumstances allow, we will finish our business speedily and one of us will escort you home within the hour. They know we are coming,” the untitled Auror informed them.

Tom didn’t see an issue with this and silently braced himself for what was to come.

He was entering the British Ministry of Magic. Voluntarily, legally and practically invited.

Tom wondered if he would ever not consider it a novelty. The thought of entering the ministry once again was dangerously alluring. The last time he had seen it, he had taken it over and imprisoned countless witches and wizards, before torturing and killing them discriminately. He didn’t foresee any of that happening during this particular visit, but the world would probably finally make sense if it did.

The Dark Lord took a fortifying breath, grabbed a handful of powder and stepped through the Floo.  

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Arriving in the atrium happened without much fanfare and Tom walked gracefully out of the fireplace, taking a couple of moments to dust off some soot from his dark robes, before turning to Auror Parkinson. The Auror stood a little more rigid than previously, his uniform a tad better arranged and even Hobday looked slightly stonier. They boxed him in once more, standing at attention.

The last Auror exited the Floo – just in time to shake hands with yet another Auror, who approached them a moment later.

“Auror Bones,” the older wizard addressed.

“Sir,” the finally named Bones responded, sounding morose.

Tom took a moment to study the wizards.

Parkinson, McKinnon, Bones and Hobday – and possibly a Fenwick. He had been personally responsible for wiping out all their families and enslaving, torturing or imprisoning whomever remained.

How very nostalgic, and incredibly _ironic._

The Parkinson family was part of the Sacred Twenty-eight and consisted at this time of 5 members; Perseus Parkinson the second, his wife Ophelia and their three children, Paolo, Pericles and Penelope. Penelope Parkinson graduated Hogwarts a year earlier with Walburga Black, in 1942. The head of a pureblood family such as theirs would never allow their firstborn to become an Auror however, so it made sense the second born, Pericles – the spare, as it were – could be permitted to enter the considerably dangerous profession.

Tom didn’t remember every single person he’d ever killed, and especially not everyone he’d ever caused the death of in any other manner, but he was certain he didn’t kill Pericles personally. He did, however, recruit his nephew Paulo Jr. in the early sixties. He’d trained the boy in the dark arts for a brief period, having been surprised at his dueling prowess. His uncle had apparently been an _Auror_ and had taught the boy before he died. He wasn’t sure when Pericles had perished, but he knew when the young Paolo died – during the first part of his crusade performing a task for him, leaving a daughter, Pansy, and her younger brother Pericles the second behind.

The Parkinson family have always been conservative in their political inclinations, usually leaning more towards the Isolationists than furthering the agenda of the pro-muggle integration party in the ministry. It made sense that Pericles Parkinson was here as his family’s ear in the Auror department – the unwilling mole of an ambitious father, more likely.

“Mr. Riddle, please follow us.”

The four Aurors escorted their would-be murderer from another life-time to the elevator, which opened and admitted them amongst other busy ministry workers. Aurors Hobday and Parkinson took special care to avoid any and all contact between Tom and any hapless employees, lest they suffer accidental electrocution, or worse. Being treated like a living hand-grenade wasn’t how he imagined this journey, but the Aurors evidently thought him magically unstable due to shock, which suited him just fine for the time being.

“Level fourteen and a half; Goblin Liaison office, Debt Collection and Quidditch Gambling Association.”

They subsequently exited and the four Aurors escorted him down a hall way, a tense urgency discernible in their movements. The dark wizard in their midst moved along without the slightest care for their distress, something Hobday found decidedly exasperating, judging by his expression.

“Is something the matter, Auror Hobday?” Tom questioned him as they passed the Goblin office receptionist.

The Auror’s head remained firmly facing forward, but his eyes betrayed him. Tom’s easy willingness for pleasantries obviously bothered him.

“No,” Hobday answered, but the word sounded sour. His superior obviously tasted the attitude as well because he chose to speak up.

“Is there an _issue,_ Auror Hobday?” the old Auror questioned firmly.

“I just think I should be present at the stadium, sir, and not babysitting rebellious _teenagers_.”

Tom smiled at him, interjecting. “Am I keeping you from pressing matters, Auror Hobday?”

“I could be assisting at the stadium. Instead, I’m evacuating a single _child_ – a child who clearly doesn’t care about the mess he’s caused.”

“A mess _I_ caused?” Tom spoke, sounding faintly amused.

“Yes,” Hobday stressed crossly.

“And you think the situation would’ve been better had I not been evacuated?”

“No, but –“

“So you think the situation would’ve improved if I hadn’t won the money they would’ve kept otherwise?”

“No, but if you hadn’t broken the _rules_ –“

“What rules? I broke no laws. I exploited a loophole, but it’s hardly my fault that the ministry’s gambling laws are inefficient.”

Parkinson mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _“Slytherin.”_

“The law clearly _states_ –“ the Auror started, but Tom interrupted him again.

“The law also states that a minor shouldn’t be made a target of animosity on behalf a corrupt organization determined on exploiting the loopholes in their contracts’ anonymity warranties, but here we are – saving me from assassination by quaffle.”

The Auror gritted his teeth, “would you stop interrupt- “

“Cease arguing with our charge, Hobday, I grow tired of your childishness,” the old Auror interrupted him, causing the thirty-something year old Auror to flush in anger and embarrassment.

Tom sent the flustered Auror a lingering look of aloof amusement, before focusing on the matter at hand. The Quidditch Gambling Association Office was closed off, its wide Sickle-adorned doors firmly locked with a sign proclaiming the office ‘closed due to current circumstances.’ Well, someone was attempting to avoid confrontation.

The Aurors obviously agreed, because Bones commenced banging his fist on the door, and shouted, “Open up! Aurors here on urgent business!”

Nothing happened for a few minutes, sans a few loud mutterings on the other side of the shiny door, prompting Bones to knock once more. Finally, after much yelling on the opposite side, the handle rattled, and a harried looking witch peeked out. 

“What… what can we do for you, officers?” she spoke hesitantly, wide and tired eyes partly covered by strands of hair that had escaped her bun. A loud, unintelligible scream erupted from somewhere inside the room and the witch twitched, followed by groans of consternation from several individuals from within.

“We are here to settle a contract – post haste,” Bones informed the witch impatiently, whose level of tiredness increased exponentially where she stood.

“Sir, we are drowning in howlers, and we really don’t have time for this. We are _closed_ ” the witch sighed, motioning towards closing the door.

The senior Auror grabbed hold of the door and kept it open, staring the witch down.

“For safety reasons, we need to settle Mr. Tom Riddle’s contract immediately. This is not up for discussion, Miss.”

The witch’s eyes widened before she threw the door open and gesticulated wildly towards the reception. “Morgana’s sagging tits, why didn’t you just say that first! Then maybe we’ll finally get some bloody peace and quiet around here!” the woman hissed, shooing Tom and the Aurors through the doorway.

“FRANK! The Riddle boy is here for his money. _Ready the transfer papers!_ ”

“YES, MA’AM!” some guy named Frank yelled back from somewhere beyond the reception. Tom briefly observed the surrounding work stations and concluded that that level of disorganization was outside his sphere of patience. 

He handed the witch his contract, which she only spared a cursory glance before moving on.

A young wizard appeared around a corner and shoved the papers to the witch, who swiftly stamped them with their insignia, signed the corner and very nearly threw the offending pieces of parchment at Tom like the very touch of the documents might cause an onslaught of dragon pox if held for too long.

Tom luckily caught the contract without problem and commenced reading it. The Aurors didn’t seem to find this anything unusual, but the agitated Association employee very nearly tore the hair from her head in anxious anticipation.

After a couple of minutes, Tom deemed the contract sufficient. Essentially, the contract detailed the circumstances of the Association’s debt to him, Gringotts referral numbers for withdrawal and transfer, dates, signatures, names and conditions, as well as the amount promised. Tom withdrew from his robe the same pen he stole earlier and signed the bottom of the transfer papers.

The witch didn’t waste another moment and looked to Frank with desperation.

“Frank, tell the others that the money is _gone._ We don’t have to receive the howlers any longer!” The poor thing looked delirious with hope and Frank wasn’t far behind her. The young wizard nodded frantically and sprinted off into the office where groans of distress could still be heard.

“Thank _Merlin_ that is over. The last couple of hours has been absolutely horrid,” the witch moaned, but noticeably more animated than before.

“Sore losers, is it?” Parkinson commented.

“One of our regulations states that we are obligated to review their contract when requested if we’re still in possession of their investment. Since the board of directors decided to announce a winner, it has been a race for them to get their contracts annulled before Mr. Riddle could claim it. Lucky for you, sir, that the directors decided to seal the deal, so to speak – bypassing that bylaw. That’s why we’ve gotten so many howlers…” the witch trailed off, glancing at Tom. She took one of the papers and handed it back to Tom.

“Receipt. Just in case. You can owl us and request an additional copy, if you wish. A similar receipt has already been sent to Gringotts. Your money will be transferred within the hour – congrats!” she offered Tom, who smiled charmingly and accepted.

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The Aurors thanked the witch, took her statement about the howler situation and left towards the elevator once more.

“Auror Parkinson and I will follow you home, Mr. Riddle. There’s an off chance that some dedicated hooligan might seek you out, so we’re required to maintain your continued state of health until you’re with your family. We haven’t been able to contact them yet, unfortunately,” Bones told him as he led him into the elevator once more.

Tom hummed in agreement. “Yes, I imagine that would be quite hard, seeing as they’re all deceased.”

Auror Bones turned his head towards him and rose his eyebrows in question, “excuse me?”

“I’m an orphan, Auror Bones,” Tom told him with a placid smile. Tom hadn’t really taken time to think about his family for a long while.

“…An orphan? Then who are your guardians?” the Auror asked, looking apologetic.

“I recently vacated the orphanage,” he told them conversationally. “I guess that would make me homeless, as well as orphaned,” he said as he closed his eyes, resting his back tiredly against the wall of the elevator. The Aurors seemed speechless for a couple of seconds, presumably wondering why he seemed so satisfied with it. The elevator started moving downwards.

His family was indeed very _dead_. Considering the time – he must’ve killed them recently. His uncle was likely still alive in Azkaban, framed for the murder of his father and grandparents. He didn’t particularly regret the action, but the ordeal seemed incredibly pointless to him now. And incriminating. He knew that Dumbledore had conducted a lot of research into his past. His sloppy execution had probably left a lot of crumbs for him to follow.

Now that he thought about it – he really should clean up young Tom Riddle’s mess, before Dumbledore, or any other interested party, could look too far into his past. That meant either killing or obliviating witnesses in Little Hangleton, the muggles of the orphanage and the neighbors who knew of his existence. The publicity he was gaining only expounded the importance of this.

“Undetermined, indeed,” Hobday muttered lowly, sharing concerned looks with his colleagues.

“Where are we taking you, then?” Bones questioned, eyes full of pity.

“Don’t look so gutted, Auror Bones. What do you think I’m going to use my newly acquired capital for?”

“But you’re only sixteen – not yet old enough to own property.”

“Old enough to live in an inn for a week, before departing for Hogwarts,” Tom countered. “You will be escorting me to Vertic Alley, where I’ll collect my few meager belongings, before departing for muggle London for the remainder of my summer.”

The Aurors didn’t seem content with leaving it at that, but the old Auror nodded at Tom, conveying his respect for his desired independence. Tom felt unusually grateful for this.

The elevator arrived at the atrium, and Tom went blind.

His self-control could really only stretch so far.

“Parkinson, grab onto my right wrist and do _not_ let go.”

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	5. Expedio

_“Parkinson_ _, grab onto my right wrist and do_ not _let go.”_

Pericles startled and grabbed on without thinking. He heard Riddle let out a displeased growl at the back of his throat and tightened his grip considerably. He felt Riddle’s arm muscles tense, as if going for his wand, so he resolutely kept the Slytherin’s hand by his side. The Auror motioned for Riddle to place his hand within in his pocket, after which his stress looked less obvious, and Pericles restriction of him less like an arrest.

The cameras kept flashing and Riddle stood absolutely still.

“Get these sodding piranhas away! Who the fuck contacted the press?!” Bones roared, partially at the crowd and partially at Hobday, who scrambled to part the throng of wizard paparazzi, so they might escape the wild flares of light.

“Mr. Riddle, how did you manage to foresee the match?”

“Mr. Riddle, please comment, what will you use your Galleons on now?”

“Tom Riddle, are you a _seer_?!”

“Is he a seer, Merlin, _no wonder_!”

“What did they mean by _undetermined_? Are you muggleborn?”

“Please, Mr. Riddle, an interview for the Daily Prophet! – Our readers are _dying_ to know how you are since the Chamber debacle in spring!”

“Auror, is Tom Riddle under arrest, or is he pressing charges against the Quidditch League and Gambling Association?”

“Why did you bet, Mr. Riddle, how did you _know–_?”

The situation was growing out of control, and Pericles felt that Riddle wasn’t far off either. He leaned slightly into Riddle’s personal space and spoke, “Mr. Riddle, you needn’t say anything. Just hang tight and try to control yourself.”

He was definitely referring to the unbelievable display of magic he’d witnessed at the stadium. They didn’t need a repeat performance of that disaster – especially nowhere this public.

He felt Riddle slowly calm down, his eyes narrowed and concentrated on somewhere beyond the reporters. The teen unclenched his fist and relaxed his muscles, which gave Pericles the cue to let go. Hobday was doing an adequate job at keeping a distance between Riddle and the rabid journalists, but Pericles didn’t feel comfortable straying too far away from the clearly unstable youth. He would be ready if the dark-haired wizard panicked.

Riddle let out a small, but significant sigh, and calmed his expression. That kind of control was admirable, he had to admit. He didn’t know of a lot of teenagers who knew their limits enough to ask for aid in such a way, and then immediately afterwards regain their composure.

Riddle would make one hell of a politician.

Aurors Bones and Fenwick had gathered a team of junior Aurors and were approaching from the Floos, determined to flush out the mob so they could depart. Riddle no doubt noticed this as well but chose to take a step _towards_ the reporters instead, raising a hand.

Impressively, the people somehow knew to quiet, and despite the continued flashing of lights, they waited for the deceptively young wizard to speak.

“Good evening,” he started, face impassive. “Today was merely an experiment. Successful, if nothing else. No, I will not comment on The Chamber Incident. I am not a seer. I do not give interviews. I will remain undetermined, if you _please_ ,” Riddle rose his hand once more to cease the chatter before it started up again, while the Aurors managed to create a corridor in the crowd for them to leave through.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have summer assignments to finish and preparations for Hogwarts to see to.  – good day,” the Slytherin finished with the lilt of a seasoned diplomat, visibly surprising the reporters as well as the Aurors.

Tom Riddle was apparently an expert at crowd management.

The Slytherin then took point, hands behind his back, and walked through the vacated space in the crowd, leaving the junior Aurors to maintain the distance and him, Hobday and Bones to walk after him like servants after a prince.

By the way Riddle moved, one should think he was used to expecting people to follow him wherever he went.

Bones told him to move to the apparition point, where they promptly side-along-apparated the perplexing teenager to Diagon Alley.

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Diagon Alley was slightly more energetic now after the ministry had recently confirmed with the muggle government that the Luftwaffe was occupied elsewhere and wouldn’t rain any more bombs over London. No bombs had fallen for a couple of years, but Grindelwald’s enforcers had had the ugly tendency to stage attacks right before an aerial strike, which they were still doing occasionally, prompting the ministries all over Europe to advise caution.

Nobody really trusted Grindelwald’s predictability, so the current safety was considered tentative.

However, since the muggle bombs were finally off the table, ordinary witches and wizards were slowly resuming their forays into magical London.

This was especially prevalent when they arrived at the apparition point beside the Leaky Cauldron.

Tom thoroughly disliked side-along apparition. It made him feel like an object being hurled through time and space, destination unknown. He rather preferred knowing where he was going and controlling how he arrived there. Trusting another human being, or any being for that matter, to not splinch him or deposit him somewhere undesired wasn’t something he was capable of. Even so, he really didn’t have a choice – sacrifices had to be made and chances had to be taken.

When he had reached his thirties in his old life, he had invented self-flight, which was an entirely new concept at the time. Muggleborns had likened him to an avenging angel, raining death from above, but Tom would like to refrain from any biblical comparisons if at all possible. In his insanity, his aversion to religion had caused the implementation of an internal taboo within his organization; that no one under any circumstances should speak of muggle religion within his earshot.

He had had his reasons.

Even so, though he was _no_ angel, flight nevertheless appealed to him. He disliked the popular, common, means of flight, namely broom, carpet, equestrian or otherwise winged beasts, but his invention had added a touch of enjoyment to his life, even through his growing madness.

Side-along apparition left a lot to be desired, however.

“Right, Mr. Riddle, let me just quickly apply a small glamour before we venture to Vertic Alley to collect your things,” Bones told him, effectively drawing him from his thoughts.

“Certainly, Auror Bones,” Tom responded pleasantly, giving the Auror the go-ahead.

Bones nodded and withdrew his wand. The wand passed over Tom’s hair, turning it a few shades lighter, then moved to his face and altered the colour of his eyes to a plain blue, before adding a slight tan to his skin. His short wavy hair remained as is, but his robes turned an unflattering _puce._

Tom grimaced slightly and raised an eyebrow at the Auror.

“Must you?”

“Your appearance will return to normal once we’re outside the Alley, Mr. Riddle,” Bones responded with slight amusement.

“Some colour might do you some good,” Parkinson commented with a grin, earning a flat expression from Tom.

Bones then proceeded to glamour the rest – changing their Auror uniforms, giving himself slightly Asian features, making Parkinson about fifteen years older and Hobday from a vaguely Slavic looking man into a ginger. Neither Parkinson nor Hobday knew how they looked and neither seemed to care. Tom supposed he got off easy, then.

He subsequently led them to the inn he had been occupying the past week. He had spent all but his last Galleon on that day’s gamble, which meant that if he hadn’t won today, he would’ve _actually_ been homeless, as he couldn’t afford the inn any longer.

Of course, that is not accounting for the amount of money he could exchange at Gringotts after lifting a couple of grand off unknowing muggles. Alternatively, he could’ve Confunded a well-off muggle and lived in his apartment till the Hogwarts Express departed the first of September.

Luckily, neither option was necessary, as he could now support himself for the remainder of his time at Hogwarts.

The four men entered the establishment and went to his room. The Aurors made a brave attempt at appearing casual, but the stress of the last couple of hours was still visible in their postures. Tom felt rather on edge as well.

When the cameras had started flashing, instincts he hadn’t known existed had flared up with only a moment’s warning, and Tom thanked _Salazar_ he had had the spare thought to demand that Parkinson controlled his movements. If he hadn’t, Tom knew he would’ve drawn his wand and cursed the reporters fatally, spelling the end of his charade. The flashes had reminded him eerily of curses flying towards him at full speed.

It looked like Tom was, after all, affected by the numerous deadly combat situations he had partaken in as Voldemort, hardening his battle reflexes to unnatural extents.

It wasn’t hard to imagine that the stress of continued fighting for decades was ignorable when one’s mind was drowning in endless white noise and the hissing of snakes.

He knew he would be paying for his mistakes for the rest of his new life and he wasn’t looking forward to learning of any more complications his past would bring him. An inability to control his reactions when surprised wasn’t ideal, but workable if Tom started meditating consistently, every day. That kind of implementation of Occlumency would dull his reaction to _anything_ , which wasn’t particularly ideal either, but retractable if need be, with enough practice.

After collecting his trunk and his spare robes, Bones told him they’d escort him to the exit of the Leaky Cauldron and leave him to his own devices. On the way there, Tom made a brief stop at Gringotts to collect some pounds, which the Aurors deemed reasonable.

“Here, take this,” Bones said as he held out a slip of paper, which Tom received and read out loud for the Aurors.

“This Underaged Wizard is Temporarily Allowed by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to Perform Defensive Magic if Threatened by a Witch or Wizard with Magically Malignant Intent. _Does not cover muggles, squibs, hags, goblins or centaurs._ Valid till the second of September 1943, at 8.35 pm.”

The dark wizard smiled. “Worried I won’t survive the night?”

“It’s extenuating circumstances. You’re on your own and possibly targeted,” Bones narrowed his eyes at him, “I don’t want to see any of the ‘accidental magic’ you pulled again, you hear? Defensive magic only,” the senior Auror spelled out for him, making Tom’s grin widen.

“Oh?” Bones gave him a look that told him that his attempted self-victimization was wasted effort, so he laughed and relented.

“As you say, Auror Bones.”

Hobday looked between him and Bones, his face the picture of surprise when he finally realized that Tom’s supposed accidental magic hadn’t been quite so accidental. Hobday was about to interject, presumably to argue that a Hogwarts student couldn’t possibly be capable of such an attack, but Bones sharp eyes shut him up.  

“Leave it, Auror Hobday, and don’t speak of it.”

The order clearly deeply displeased the younger Auror, who probably wanted him charged with directed assault, but Hobday decided not to press the issue. Instead, he offered a crisp salute before making his farewells and leaving for the apparition point.

“I’ll take my leave as well. We’re approaching tea time and I still need to finish my work at the stadium,” Bones turned to Parkinson who straightened his back and looked expectantly back at his superior. “You’re off duty now, Auror Parkinson, you may do as you wish.”

With those parting words, he nodded formally at Tom and took his leave. Tom watched him go for a moment, before refocusing his attention on Parkinson.

He reminded him so much of Paolo, but younger than he remembered him. More tired, less afraid.

“Have you ever been to the muggle world, Auror Parkinson?”

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Pericles looked at the exit leading to muggle London and then back at the adult-like teen in front of him, wondering where this conversation was leading.

“…We had a brief stint to a muggle park as trainees. The experience was… curious,” Pericles admitted hesitantly. Why was Riddle drawing him into conversation?

“Are you aware of the situation – beyond the barrier?” Tom Riddle continued, a small smile present on his lips. The teen somehow managed to make a perfectly handsome smile look incredibly ominous.

“I admit I am more familiar with the wizarding side of things, namely the efforts made to oppose Grindelwald’s raids.”

“Yes, I suppose you would be,” Riddle agreed. The teen passed a hand over his hair and face, dispelling the glamours, before seemingly brushing off the colour-changing charm on his robes. The casual display of the Finite nullification spell, wordless and wandless, managed to stun him for a couple of seconds before he regained control of his expression again. The younger wizard hadn’t seemed to notice his amazement, or hadn’t cared for it, because he grabbed onto the handle and opened the door, gesturing towards the muggle street.

“Would you care for a meal? As thanks for your help today – a celebration wouldn’t be out of order either.”

The 24-year old pureblood studied the Slytherin for a couple of seconds, then eyed the doorway uncertainly.

He had never been on the other side of that door. Of course, he had been to his friends’ houses and manors in different corners of the British Isles, but never had he willingly entered a purely muggle inhabited environment.

He’d simply never thought to do so.

His family were firmly isolationists, and believed mudbloods, or muggleborns as some chose to call them, sullied the magical community with their foreign culture. He didn’t really disagree. Muggles didn’t understand their way of life, and the last six years as an Auror trainee, and then as a fully fleshed Auror, had brought him in contact with many a muggleborn who committed crimes, because they simply didn’t know how to conduct themselves in wizarding communities. They often opted to move to a mixed muggle/wizard town eventually, like Godric’s Hollow, where muggleborns like themselves created parallel societies to avoid ostracization, instead of working at _assimilation,_ like Pericles was convinced was the only way to end the collective conflict.

The integration party in the Wizengamot believed that the muggle influence enriched their already brilliant society, but as his father and aunts often argued, they saw every year that century old traditions were dropped in favour of ‘innovative,’ new and more _inclusive_ activities.

It was really just another way to describe the action of replacing certain aspects of their lives with those of cultures unwanted, with often completely contradictory needs and beliefs.

Politics was really his brother’s forte, but Pericles had listened to enough of his rants from his work at the ministry to write several essays on the subject.

Even so…

Pericles was considering seeing what the fuss was about. The ministry had said that the muggle war wasn’t affecting London explosively anymore – and his family wasn’t likely to expect him. He could let them believe he had been tied up with extra work due to the disorder.

His father would be furious.

“I suppose I will join you,” the words left his mouth and Pericles felt quite rebellious. He hadn’t ever entertained the thought of being disobedient in this manner, but at the moment he felt incredibly – _inexplicably_ – curious.

“Wonderful,” Riddle said and led them outside, leaving magical territory.

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“Change the colour of your robes to black, then put away your wand,” Riddle told him.

Pericles annulled his glamour, changed his partial Auror uniform from a deep red to black and spelled the logo of his department away for good measure. He looked to Riddle for confirmation that he looked inconspicuous enough and noticed that Riddle’s own robe was now a dark muggle coat.

When did he change?

“That will be sufficient – follow me,” the teen said, before leading Pericles down a sidewalk.

Those wheeled vehicles that he believed were referred to as automobiles were zipping past them, stopping and accelerating periodically according to the precariously positioned uniformed man with a sign. The unsystematic crossing of pedestrians risking life and limb navigating the commotion on the road looked decidedly unsafe to him.

_Muggle_ pedestrians.

He had never seen so many muggles in one place. The place was absolutely packed. He didn’t know whether to feel insecure or disturbed by their presence.

“They are all dressed the same, the muggles,” he commented, but Riddle kept walking, lugging his trunk behind him.

“Hm, yes, they like to do that,” the teen answered uncaringly.

“Do what exactly?”

“They value uniformity. Like the purebloods have a set of standards that they should uphold, the average muggle also has social norms they feel that they need to adhere to,” Riddle informed him, shedding some light on the psychology of muggles.

“What happens if they don’t conform?”

Tom paused and looked at him with a heavy gaze that sent a shiver up his spine. “Independent on the level of offence, the reaction is usually negative,” he spoke, his tone laden with impatience. “Occasionally, the reaction is more – extreme.”

Riddle recommenced walking, signalling the end of that conversation. He clearly didn’t want to discuss how muggles applied societal discipline. Interesting.

Being an Auror, Pericles wouldn’t give up quite so easy, however.

“Like when the muggles commit crimes?”

Riddle kept walking for a moment, before stopping to look at a building on the other side of the busy road. The sign said _British Restaurant_. How appropriate.

Riddle chose to speak then.

“No,” he said.

“Care to elaborate on that? You’re being unnecessarily vague, Riddle.”

Riddle sighed, and Pericles suddenly felt like a child who’d asked too many questions.

The dark-haired wizard gestured with a come-hither hand movement and started to walk towards the restaurant, expertly managing to avoid collision with the automobiles. The teen obviously expected him to follow him, so Pericles did his best to catch up to him without being run over by a muggle.

Some of the muggles were looking at him now – like he didn’t belong. They were looking at Riddle as well, but opposed to Pericles, Riddle looked shamelessly at ease being the centre of attention.

What he wouldn’t give to know what would fluster the stoic wizard.

He had endured the hostility of thousands, a personal attack, witnessing piles of corpses and dozen reporters ambushing him illegally in the ministry.

The boy was unflappable – disregarding his near explosion in the atrium. Riddle hadn’t reacted with discomfort, he’d reacted with _intent._ A kind of intent he recognized in some of the veteran Aurors who’d prepared them for the war.

He wondered how that came about.

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They entered the establishment and a middle-aged muggle man with a styled moustache and a waistcoat nodded from behind a counter and then at a free two-man table by one of the windows. His younger companion nodded back and led him to said table where two menus were already placed on the surface.

The inside of the restaurant was – homey, he supposed. There wasn’t an awful lot of space, and they couldn’t afford to speak too loudly, lest they risk breaking the Statute. There were approximately twenty other tables of different sizes and half of them were occupied. He noticed that all the seats at the windows were filled, and Pericles assumed it was to make the restaurant appear busy and desirable from the outside.

Riddle placed his trunk by their table and sat down, picked up his menu and made another hand gesture while looking through the options. He followed the younger man’s example and tried to make himself comfortable. The seats were cushioned, and their table was tastefully, if not delicately, arranged with a table cloth, a little bowl he assumed was an ash tray and a pot with dried flowers.

Those flowers looked awfully flammable, he thought, looking around for the source of lighting to assure himself that nothing would catch fire. He didn’t know how muggles handled things like that without magic.

“You look confused,” Riddle stated, still reading the menu he had yet to peruse.

Pericles’ eyes were fixated on a low-hanging lamp of some kind. No fire?

“How does the lighting work? There don’t seem to be any candles.”

Riddle sighed again and dragged a palm across his face.

Pericles huffed, annoyed. The teen seemed endlessly exasperated with him. And tired. Why did he insist on bringing him here if he wasn’t going to answer any of his questions?

His irritation must’ve been apparent on his face because Riddle lowered his menu and gifted him with his full attention.

“I didn’t bring you here to teach you Muggle Studies,” Riddle stated, displeased.

“Then why did you bring me?”

“To be honest with you, Parkinson – I find myself perplexed. I desire clarification on a few subjects.” He was interrupted when a comely muggle girl came with two glasses and a bottle of wine, to whom Riddle nodded and received a blush and a smile in return. The Slytherin then ignored the girl and poured them both generously.  

The sight was positively bizarre, but Pericles elected not to mention it.

“I thought you wanted to celebrate?” Pericles asked instead. Celebrating the end of a match that was also the end of several people’s lives was strange, but Tom Riddle seemed indifferent to that fact.

“I do, but I had ulterior motives,” the clearly devious teen admitted blatantly, taking a sip of his wine with a slightly disappointed look on his face, before taking another.

“Slytherins… you’re absolutely impossible to have a conversation with,” he accused Riddle, who raised an eyebrow.

“Ravenclaw, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“Then I expect you’ll be perfectly capable of answering my questions satisfactorily,” the teen declared. Before Pericles could comment on that presumption, the muggle girl was back and looked to Riddle once more with eyes of adoration.

“What will it be, sirs?”

Pericles then remembered he was at a restaurant and quickly read through his menu. There were four options and one of them was simply called _bread._

“We will have the meat,” Riddle stated without consulting him. The girl briefly looked to him and then clearly deemed his opinion unnecessary and left with their menus.

“What does the dish _meat_ consist of?” he asked suspiciously.

“Minced beef with parsnips, greens and potatoes, supposedly. That’s all they’re allowed to serve today, besides a broth, puddings and breads,” Riddle informed him.

“ _Allowed?_ ” Muggles had such strange customs.

“Yes,” Riddle took another sip of his wine, “the British government has imposed nationwide rationing, so food is limited.”

“The muggles starve themselves?” Pericles questioned disbelievingly, eyebrows raised.

“Would you like me to explain food rationing to you, Parkinson? Rationing; a fixed allowance of provisions or food, especially for soldiers, sailors or civilians during a _shortage_.”

Pericles gave Riddle a look that said his explanation wasn’t appreciated, then tasted his wine.

That was quite possibly the lowest quality of wine he’d ever tasted in his life. He set his glass down. Muggles apparently had unbelievably low standards.

“ _Why_ is there a shortage?”

“For a Ravenclaw, you ask a lot of questions, but don’t think of any answers,” Riddle _teased_ him –he _thinks._ The wizard might’ve just insulted him, but with Riddle you just couldn’t be _sure._

“For a Slytherin, you’re being acutely illusive – and that’s saying something,” he said as he studied the other wizard. “I’ve had a lot of friends and family in Slytherin and none of them evade answering questions quite like you.”

“No one is quite like me,” Riddle confirmed, audaciously. Pericles resisted rolling his eyes. He didn’t know if Riddle was just being prideful, or extraordinarily secretive.

He then took a moment to consider the other’s advice.

“Either the muggles have failed to produce enough food to support their population… or they can’t,” he concluded, and Riddle nodded, sipping his shitty wine.

Was he even _allowed_ wine in the muggle world?

“I’m going to give them the benefit of the doubt and say that they, for one reason or another, _can’t,”_ he paused. “Does the war have something to do with it?”

“You are correct,” Riddle praised, and Pericles felt proud and annoyed with himself.

“Due to German naval affairs, the British export has suffered an increased inability to provide the necessary surplus of foodstuffs that they usually enjoy. Since the British government can’t accurately predict when the conflicts will end, they initiated rationing almost immediately following the declaration of war. They’ve learned from their mistakes during the first world war,” Riddle explained, which only served to raise further questions for Pericles. He was beginning to see a pattern emerge.

Tom Riddle had an agenda with every conversation and ceased speaking when the discussion went somewhere he deemed off-course.

“First world war? Are we currently experiencing the second?” he guessed. Riddle closed his eyes for moment, possibly praying for patience, then placed his hand in his coat and said, “Accio Velox _newspaper_.” Riddle then proceeded to pull out a newspaper from his coat and handed it to him.

Pericles slowly reached out and accepted it, staring at the teen.

“You know it’s incredibly disconcerting when you do that…?”

“Why should I care?”

“I’m an Auror,” he _tried._

“Did you see me use a wand?” Riddle smiled slyly.

As an Auror, he was technically never completely off duty, and could act in the interest of the ministry at any time – but Riddle was correct. Wandless magic wasn’t considered illegal. Partially because it hasn’t been necessary to monitor before, and partially because it’s _impossible_ to detect when performed deliberately.

In a legal situation, it would be his word against Riddle’s, unless a Pensieve or Veritaserum was involved, and even then, a skilled lawyer could argue for the improbability of Riddle’s perceived level of skill as preposterous and Pericles’ point of view would be called into question.

Tom Riddle was obviously aware of his position and felt confident enough to flaunt his ability in front of an Auror. Did Riddle simply not care?

“I’ve never heard of that level of proficiency, _”_ he prodded.

“Read from page number three.”

Once again ignored, Pericles sighed in defeat and opened the newspaper to said page. The Sunday Times, the tabloid was called.

He started reading.

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He took another sip of his wine, suppressed a grimace and swallowed.

It was truly awful wine.

Tom observed his dinner guest read the newspaper as they waited for their food. The Auror had briefly questioned why the pictures didn’t move, which Tom hadn’t deigned to dignify with an answer – Parkinson had continued reading in silence.

He rubbed his eyes briefly and settled his hair, trying not to appear as exhausted as he felt.

It had been a long day.

He’d forgotten to eat lunch, then he’d been sequestered at the stadium and then at the ministry. Then he spotted a prime opportunity to obtain some first-hand details on the current situation and couldn’t ignore it.

Parkinson had been surprisingly susceptible to a Compulsion charm, so Tom hadn’t had any problems convincing the young Auror to accompany him into the muggle world.

The man must’ve already been fairly curious to capitulate so quickly. Low-level Compulsions worked best when the bewitched weren’t opposed to the idea in the first place. It just made the decision a little easier.

“So you’re telling me, that the reason that England isn’t under attack, is because this Hitler individual is busy elsewhere, getting blown up by some Union?”

“That’s one way to put it,” Tom allowed. “England and its allies are still under attack, however. Just not by the Luftwaffe, the German air force, in the same manner. The German army is concentrating a lot of its firepower gaining and defending territories in the Soviet Union, as well as maintaining the European countries they’ve already subjugated. If you read the article on the bottom of page 5, section 3, you’ll see that the Danish government has been dissolved, because they’ve refused their conquerors’ demands to perform executions.”

Pericles nodded, listening attentively. Good, then maybe he wouldn’t desire clarifications.

“Up until recently, Hitler has managed to gain control over France, Holland, Belgium, Denmark, Norway, Austria, Poland, Czechoslovakia and so forth. He then decided to betray one of his powerful allies, which is now backfiring on him.”

“What does he get out of conquering these countries?” Parkinson asked surprised, skimming through the newspaper with a confused look. Had nobody in the ministry paid any attention to this?

_Purebloods._ They thought nothing the muggles did could touch them.

“Well, that’s a tad more complicated to explain,” he paused and received a ‘go-on’ from Parkinson.

“What do you know of muggle religion?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Answer my questions, Parkinson. I assure you I have a point to this,” he stressed impatiently. Must all Ravenclaws be so obstinately inquisitive?

“Right then,” the Auror grunted, displeased, and put the newspaper down on the table beside his plate. He hadn’t touched his wine after the first try. Understandable.

“I know of the witch-burnings, obviously,” the man started, and Tom could already sense his disappointment set in.

“I’ve been told that was tied into their religious belief, which was why the Statue of Secrecy was ultimately drafted and put into play, as well as the establishment of the International Confederation of Wizards.”

“Correct, but exceedingly incomplete. Muggle Studies, as well as History of Magic, doesn’t teach anything about muggle religion, which is quite honestly a travesty. You can learn a lot about how muggles think by looking into their religions,” the dark wizard explained, refilling his glass.

“Why do I need to know how _muggles_ think?”

“You’re contradicting yourself, Parkinson. You asked me why Hitler wanted to conquer these countries, and now you’re asking me why muggles’ thought patterns should matter?”

Parkinson flushed in embarrassment and conceded that he had a point. Apparently, some purebloods could be taught. ‘Brilliant – progress,’ he thought sarcastically. 

“Returning to what I was alluding to,” he took another sip, “– this war is based on the principle that some people are worth more than others, based solely on their origin and cultural, as well as religious beliefs and practices.”

Parkinson stared at him for a couple of seconds and Tom grinned devilishly at him.

“Sounds familiar?”

“You’re not seriously trying to tell me –“

“I am,” Tom interrupted, downing another glass. Getting into the bottle, the taste became easier and easier to ignore.

Parkinson was staring at him incredulously, trying to connect the dots. The man picked up the newspaper again and started reading furiously.

The muggle girl came with their plates, and Tom was correct to assume that that day’s meat dish would be a bland affair.

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During the whole meal, Pericles – as the man had insisted he called him after another 30 minutes of ‘heated’ debate – inquired about any and everything in relation to the muggle affairs of the war. As Tom had kept himself updated on both sides of the conflict, Tom felt that he was uniquely qualified to provide a coherent summarization.

Pericles had explained that the Aurors were almost fully concentrating their efforts on catching and apprehending Grindelwald, as had been decreed by the ICW and MACUSA, and hadn’t spared a thought to looking at the bigger picture. He had expected as much.

Pericles had explained that the general opinion was that the muggle war and the war against the Dark Lord was coincidentally happening simultaneously and not correlated _at all._

_‘Moronic, wilfully ignorant_ idiots. _’_

“It says here that two hundred people has escaped something called a _concentration camp_ in the republic – what is a republic?” he mumbled, “of Poland. What is a concentration camp?”

Tom sighed, _again._

“The first purchase I’m conducting after this meal will be a Merlin-damned dictionary, _Pericles,_ which I will mail you _tomorrow morning,_ so you can read it while you drink your morning tea.”

“Was that a joke, Tom – it was so subtle that I barely caught it,” the man teased him. Tom grimaced but was determined to get used to hearing his name again. It simply wasn’t time to think of a fix for that yet.

“But – returning to your question – a concentration camp, or extermination camp, is where Hitler has deposited his prisoners of war – mainly Jews set for execution, captives from conquered areas and/or rebels,” he explained.

“The muggle who wrote the article makes it sounds like there’s more than one camp in Poland,” he hedged in a questioning tone, and Tom confirmed.

“How many are there?”

“Approximately forty thousand in various countries in Europe, I believe.”

Pericles stared at him in stupefied horror, his food going untouched.

“With two hundred people in every camp, that’s eight million people!” the Auror hissed with obvious distress.

“You’re assuming there’s only two hundred people in these camps. There’s thousands,” he clarified expressionlessly, eating his lacklustre dinner. He couldn’t wait for the end of the war, so he might finally receive some proper food.

The Auror fell quiet and stared at his paper, eyes wide at the blurry picture of refugees from the camp.

“…How many – how many muggles have been killed?” the Auror asked, probably only now realizing the scope of what was going on in the muggle world.

Tom was more than happy to disillusion him.

“As many as fifteen million people have already perished in the concentration camps. But, worldwide – “he paused for a sip of his wine – and effect.

“– worldwide, between fifty and eighty million people have died the past five years.” He was probably mixing the amount with the final count at the end of the war, but no one ever quite figured out the exact number of casualties, so Tom didn’t think it mattered. In comparison, around seven hundred wizards and witches have died since Grindelwald commenced his attacks, of which two hundred were pure-blooded or belonging to noble families around Europe and the Americas.

The Auror let out a noise of distress.

“Why has nobody stopped the muggle – monster yet?! Why haven’t the German or _Polish_ ministries done anything?” Pericles questioned heatedly, getting worked up.

“You’re assuming they haven’t tried.”

“Well, have they?!”

“You’re the Auror, Pericles. You tell me,” Tom smiled. Now they were finally producing some results.

“I’m not a captain, Tom, I don’t know anything crucial beyond the fact that the German Ministry is hunting for –“ the Auror stopped and narrowed his eyes in a serious expression. Tom waited patiently, finishing his plate.

“I see,” he said quietly after a moment. “Grindelwald is protecting him, isn’t he?”

The Dark Lord nodded. “That was my conclusion as well. You purebloods can be so obtuse, it’s actually kind of nauseating,” Tom concluded to Pericles’ consternation. “It’s like you deliberately choose not to pursue a subject when it seems too difficult to deal with.”

No ‘like’ about it – Tom knew they did exactly that.

“How did you survive in Slytherin with that _attitude_ –?” –And upbringing, went unsaid.

“It’s not an _attitude_ , it’s intelligence. Something you and your foolish, magically deficient friends seem to have bred out of your bloodlines,” Tom grinned unkindly and the pureblood frowned at him, probably feeling insulted.

“Talking of ill-breeding – “

“No, we’re not. We were discussing Grindelwald – a topic we haven’t finished yet,” the dark wizard cut in.

Pericles sighed. “Right…But if you already worked out that Grindelwald was keeping this maniac alive, why did you need me to tell you? And why is the Dark Lord protecting him in the first place?”

“It’s always nice to get one’s suspicions confirmed.” He had also wanted to ascertain that his conclusions really did align with his expectations, once again. Two out of two experiments were a good indication, so far.

He’d assumed that Grindelwald was still working with Hitler without most magical ministries’ knowledge. The German ministry and certain parts of the ICW had kept that under wraps for a decade, determined to flush out the wizard themselves. When that had failed, they’d joined in on convincing Albus Dumbledore to handle the Dark Lord. If Pericles, in the low position he held, had known of the connection, then something significantly different must’ve happened prior to Tom’s arrival. He could only conclude that that wasn’t the case.

“As for why Grindelwald is protecting Hitler? – No clue,” he _lied._

“I don’t know what to do with this,” Pericles confessed as he buried his face in his hands, food only partially finished. The pureblood was violating several basic etiquette rules by slouching like that, but the Auror’s miniscule break-down was entertaining nonetheless.

“Well,” Tom said as he motioned for the waiter. “I’m heading to find an inn, after which I’m finding a pub –“

“You’re a sixth-year student, only _sixteen_!”

It sounded like the Auror had only just remembered that fact. Tom looked at him unimpressed.

“You think I should be satisfied with plonk this terrible, because I’m underaged?”

“No, I don’t think you should be drinking at all!” the Auror hissed in desperation, drawing a bit of attention from the muggles.

Tom knew it must’ve already been more than frustrating for the Auror to know that he’d be leaving an underaged wizard alone in the muggle world – but there was nothing he could really do. The law worked differently for wizards and witches born in the muggle world. According to the law, they were first and foremost citizens of Britain, and when they turned 17 they could elect to have their records erased or altered or even apply for dual muggle-wizard citizenship.

Unless the Aurors made direct contact with the muggle police, Tom was free to do as he pleased. They could potentially attempt to reinstate him in a wizarding orphanage, but Auror Bones had luckily approved of his wishes, annulling _that_ aggravation.

Tom pulled out the needed food coupons, laced with generous use of the Confundus charm to appear legitimate, and stood up. He realigned his clothes and looked at Pericles with a raised eyebrow.

“If anyone is entitled a drink, I am,” the very exhausted sixteen-year-old said firmly.

“Celebration, yes I heard, but haven’t you had enough –“

“This has nothing to do with celebration. My experiment was a success, yes, but I mucked up on so many fronts today that I feel exhausted and mildly depressed. I need time to cope with it and since I’m not allowed to use my wand to let out my frustrations, I’m going to have to improvise,” Tom said resolutely, feeling rather old and tired.

Pericles suddenly looked at him with eyes filled with compassion and confusion. The compassion nagged at him, so Tom took a peek at the Auror’s surface thoughts.

The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes at the other man.

“I don’t have a problem, Pericles, and I don’t need help,” Tom hissed at him.

“You’re a sixteen-year-old aiming at getting pissed alone. I’d say there is a problem,” the Auror stated and crossed his arms, trying and failing to establish seniority.

Tom waved him off tiredly, leaving for the exit, not even entertaining the thought of arguing with the man. If he was in Pericles’ situation, he would’ve thought the notion absurd as well.

That didn’t mean he cared about his grievances whatsoever.

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“I’m guessing I can’t convince you otherwise, huh?” Pericles suddenly asked after a moment of silence. They were standing outside the restaurant and Tom was poised to leave, trunk in hand.

The man’s tone had been oddly fond.

“If it’s any consolation, Pericles, I do not plan on _‘getting pissed.’_ I do not like losing my faculties.” Which was true. Getting absolutely sloshed was too close to uncontrollability for his likening.

Sampling a much better wine was on his agenda, however.

“You’re an extremely complicated man, Tom,” Pericles understated, as well as referring to Tom has an adult, which was quite refreshing, if he had to be honest.

Tom inclined his head in mock-thanks, to which Pericles snorted out a laugh. The Auror waved the newspaper he’d been given in the air and smiled faintly.

“I’m keeping this, if you don’t mind. I have some things I need to look into, and some people I need to talk with.”

Tom thought for a moment, before speaking.

“If you find yourself – confused – I’d be willing to offer my help.”

“Thank you. I might take you up on that,” Pericles admitted.

With those parting words, the Auror shook his hand in farewell and moved into a side street. The pop of apparition signified his departure.

‘I wonder if illuminating an Auror to Grindelwald’s movements might cause a change,’ Tom mused thoughtfully, hopefully walking towards an inn, so he might end his homelessness.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually post a chapter once a week - if anyone's wondering.


	6. Intueor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be weekly from now on. Happy Halloween! :D

 

Mathias, Torben and their father arrived home shortly after exiting from the Faraway Floo at the central. Their father had apparated them home, after which he’d promptly left to see his friend Mulciber – presumably to rage about the preposterousness of it all.

Their mother had fussed for a while, then called for the house elf to prepare their evening meals. The finely dressed woman had pressed them for minute details of that afternoon’s events, which was highly irregular of her – showing any interest at all in their activities – and then much like their father, she’d left to gossip with her friends.

Typical, but disheartening nonetheless.

Mathias sighed, raking a hand across in face. His younger brother sent him a look filled with sympathy. They were seated in their small private library, reading or staring at the bookshelves in silence.

The Nott family was one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, so that had entitled them to several mansions, one of which their branch had taken residence in. His uncle Alcander Nott was the patriarch of their family and absolutely obsessed with their lineage, which meant that every branch was taken care of no matter the relation. Though, since their father was the second born son, and not the main heir, he had had to get properly educated in order to support himself optimally, seeing as their inheritance was less substantial. Their father had opted to become a defence lawyer, as encouraged by their grandparents, usually lent out to their uncle’s less than reputable friends when in need of legal counsel.

Mathias knew that his father specialized in getting _around_ the law, and not strictly upholding it. His uncle had explained once, when he’d asked why their father was a lawyer, and he a politician, that their family and friends had been worried about the laws that were changing. Marcellus had therefore been pressured into becoming a lawyer, so they could have a legal expert in hand, helping them circumvent regrettable legislation. He hadn’t said it in so many words, but the implication had been there.

Mathias’ uncle had recently taken to teaching him about politics, having told him he had the makings of a decent politician. Mathias didn’t really appreciate the intricacies of the game, but his parents had been over the moon, so he continued the lessons biweekly. Now he was set to inheriting his family’s secondary seats, since his uncle and aunt had only two daughters and had yet to produce any male heirs – and likely wouldn’t, by the looks of it.

His grandfather had sat on the primary seats until recently, having died in early May, while he was sitting his O.W.L’s. His female cousins weren’t strictly prohibited from inheriting the family seats, but since they would be married to different families, they wouldn’t be allowed to manage the seats directly for long. Hence, his training.

For the good of the family, they called it.

Nevertheless, because of their father’s and uncle’s positions, they lived comfortably and his mother’s family, the Montagues, had had no problems marrying their daughter off to a branch family member. Unfortunately, their mother wasn’t particularly caring and Mathias and Torben had mostly been raised by their tutors, their friends’ parents and the house elves. They knew their parents loved them, but besides the occasional outing with their father and uncle, the brothers were usually expected to entertain themselves.

Torben turned another page in his book and then promptly closed it and threw it across the room. The automatic organization charms swiftly replaced the book in its rightful place, but the younger brother seemed satisfied with his throw nonetheless.

“I can’t get it out of my head,” he said.

Mathias huffed and leaned back on the loveseat he had chosen for himself. He glared at his brother minutely, before mockingly mimicking his brother’s higher tone of voice.

“Riddle doesn’t seem that bad, I bet you’re _just_ exaggerating. Riddle is a prefect _, isn’t that nice?_ Riddle caught the half-giant in the act, he can tell me of the beast! _Merlin,_ isn’t he _smart,_ he knows about magical creatures and can convince father to gamble for him, _oh my!”_ Mathias taunted his brother angrily, teeth gritted.

“Today wasn’t Tom’s fault,” Torben defended weakly.

“He certainly didn’t think so – he didn’t seem sorry at all,” Mathias spoke intensely, beseeching his brother to come to his senses.

He had told him Riddle wasn’t a good influence, dangerous even, but had his brother listened? No – and now several people were dead, and they were scarred for life.

Mathias let out another sigh.

Objectively, he knew that Tom Riddle had nothing to do with the deaths and that the other boy couldn’t possibly have known what would’ve happened, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that _he had_ , and that he had been waiting for it the whole game.

Why would the Slytherin have gone with them to a quidditch game, if he hadn’t thought it would provide him with something useful? That was how he knew the boy operated. Riddle had never partaken in anything remotely recreational at Hogwarts, that he’d noticed, so his willingness to accompany them had nagged at him for days.

When he had encountered Riddle at the Leaky Cauldron, he had been so shocked. And the shock hadn’t abated _at all_. He knew that Tom Riddle was a very talented wizard, loved by the teachers and looked up to by the younger years despite his attitude, but he’d never been afraid of him before. He’d seen him cast destructive spells during duelling practice, so he knew he was powerful beyond the average. He’d been leery, but never petrified.

Mathias wasn’t an irrational person, so he was absolutely convinced his fear must come from a place of reason. He cared for his younger brother, so his unwillingness to take his word for it annoyed him to no end.

He sat up properly and regarded his brother once more. The younger boy looked befuddled and miserable.

“I told you he was – different,” the Slytherin spoke softly and his brother looked up.

“Being different isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

“There’s strange and then there’s _different._ Tom Riddle is an absolute mystery, Ben. Everyone in Slytherin knows where he comes from, but he’s never confirmed nor denied anything and his _intelligence_ – considering that fact – has been baffling us all since day one.”

“Comes from?” Torben questioned curiously, brows furrowed.

“Riddle is from the muggle world,” he said.

“Yeah, you told us he lived at a muggle orphanage – which he appears to have left. Father seems to think he’s a… mudblood,” Torben spoke, reluctantly adding the last part.

Mathias groaned. “We don’t know what he is!”

“How can you not know?!”

“We think Riddle knows what he is. He’s been seen looking through lineage books, so it has been theorized that he might be a half-blood, but we simply don’t know. Riddle always avoids the subject!” Could he be ashamed of something? Riddle didn’t seem the type.

“Yeah, I noticed he does that a lot, especially with you,” his brother added amusedly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mathias questioned, affronted. Half the time the other Slytherin had ignored him completely, so he didn’t think that counted.

“You were trembling so hard, I think Tom might’ve been afraid you’d break if he gave you too much attention,” the bugger grinned.

“I wasn’t _trembling_ …”

“You were. You were completely unable to maintain conversation with him. I think he thinks my older brother is a simpleton.”

“Okay, yes, I concede – he scares me – _slightly_ ,” he paused in thought, thinking back to the feeling of fear that Tom Riddle effortlessly evoked in him. He shivered unconsciously.

“He just makes me incredibly uncomfortable. His demeanour is off-putting,” he finished.

His brother seemed to consider that for a moment.

“Do you gather he might be like Marigold’s son?”

“Riddle is hardly retarded, Ben. He’s not even socially challenged or withdrawn. He’s popular and attractive and capable of taking care of himself.”

“But he’s so… cold. He’s not very emotional. It was like he didn’t care about anything, sometimes. Even when he answered my questions about Care, he didn’t seem enthusiastic or engaged in the conversation.”

Mathias thought that ‘uninterested’ was just Riddle’s default facial expression.

“That just means he’s different, Ben, like I said. Try engaging him in a conversation about philosophy and I guarantee that he’s going to surprise you,” Mathias told his brother seriously.

He only had vague recollections of overheard conversations from the Slytherin common room, but it was no secret that Tom Riddle abhorred muggles, contradictorily enough since he lived and grew up with them.

There might be a story there, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear it.

“I’m going to owl him tomorrow,” his brother spoke, getting up.

“I specifically heard him tell you _not_ to,” he spoke with a tight expression. “If you want to have any hope of him teaching you, you need to prove to him you can follow orders, Ben.” To go against Riddle’s wishes from the get-go was also a sure-fire way of attracting his ire, and he’d rather his brother avoided that for as long as possible.

Torben looked thoughtful, and then frightfully determined. The younger boy then moved towards the door and called back, “I’ll be in my room, finishing my homework.”

Mathias looked at his brother as he left and knew the boy intended to practice that spell Riddle told him to work at.

01110011 00101110 00001010

Tom found a pub.

It was old and traditional, but Tom didn’t really care for the aesthetics. He only cared about getting something to help him fall asleep tonight.

The wine at the restaurant had been absolute shite. 

He’d found a small inn further up the street and had paid for three nights in advance. The place wasn’t anything grand, but the inn was a part of a chain, which could potentially obscure his location if the name of his residence was leaked.

He was feeling slightly paranoid – especially since establishing wards wasn’t legally feasible at the moment – legality being an _issue._

The Dark Lord entered the pub and noticed that the place had seen many years of use. The room was long, and an elongated bar was positioned against the far back wall, with several stools lining the bar table. There were a couple tables to the left of the bar used for poker already occupied by muggles, with five smaller tables situated between the dark windows and the bar.

Tom walked directly to the bar, chose a stool, took off his coat and sat down. He knew he wouldn’t be receiving any Firewhiskey there, which was slightly disheartening. His short exile evidently imposed certain restrictions on him and a lack of wizarding liquor was one of them. 

He waved the bartender over and the muggle strode closer with a considering look, inspecting his face and attire.

“One glass of red wine, please,” Tom requested and placed another coupon-copy down for the man to take. The bartender picked up the coupon and nodded, but paused and asked, “I usually don’t ask,” the man started, “but I feel I need to. I usually don’t get lads like you coming in. Where were you stationed?”

The dark-haired wizard stared in blank confusion for a second, before plucking the answer from the man’s head. The Confundus charm worked differently when done wandlessly. Normally, the charm caused minute memory loss and confusion after which the charmed individual was susceptible to manipulation by the caster. However, when the bartender took hold of the charmed fake coupons, the muggle had been led to fill in the blanks of his confusion himself and had evidently concluded that Tom was a young soldier with a soldier’s permission for alcohol. 

‘Surprising, but not ineffectual.’

“I’m on medical leave at the moment. I was sent to provide aid to the French resistance efforts, but a U-boat torpedoed my carrier off the coast of Belgium,” Tom lied convincingly, managing to sound properly glum. The muggle nodded sadly and patted his shoulder, much to his consternation, and then probably went to find his wine in the cellar.

With his wine on the way, the young Dark Lord curled a fist beneath his chin and rested his arm heavily on the bar.

Today had been a mixed bag of successes and failures. On the top of his head, he could account for three significant mistakes, one big problem and a situation that needed at the very least partial resolving before he departed for Hogwarts.

His first mistake had been his interpretation of his theoretical meddling in the event. He had assumed that his participation wouldn’t change the follow-up after the match, and that had been incredibly complacent of him. The event had happened as predicted, but because he involved himself in the significant things that happened _as a result_ of the whole affair, and not in the actual event itself, he’d ended up changing the course of history _anyway_ , which had most definitely _not_ been part of the plan. Now people who probably hadn’t died last time were now gone and Tom didn’t know how that would affect anything.

Tom hated the thought of _not knowing._

His second mistake was that he hadn’t spared a thought to the ramifications of winning all the money. He’d been foolishly and single-mindedly concentrating on observing any possible shifts in history, as well as planning where and how he’d use his winnings.

In hindsight, it was obvious that the Quidditch League would get into trouble and would seek a scapegoat of some kind. He remembered when it had happened in his original timeline, and he was pretty certain the League had received several lawsuits, especially since there’d been no one but the teams and the people officiating the gambling to place blame on.

Thirdly, and most embarrassing, was the fact that he’d thought entering a contract using his real name wouldn’t get him in trouble. A contract with loose definitions of anonymity that he knew he would’ve exploited himself if he had the chance, in a situation where he’d be uniquely implicated and in a public setting with limited manoeuvrability.

He’d allowed complete idiots access to an obvious weakness by not even bothering to protect his own identity. Yes, the directors had gone beyond their own policies, but Tom knew that people’s policies weren’t always worth the trouble of upholding.

He had to stop making such ridiculous mistakes.

Lastly, if that wasn’t quite enough already, he hadn’t thought of how Dumbledore figured out how to find his horcruxes, but the obvious answer – now when he was seriously considering it – lied in his past and tied back to mistake number three. He needed to erase as much of his past as humanely possible post haste to assure his anonymity. He didn’t want to be tracked, catalogued or blackmailed in the future, which was of paramount importance.

The fewer people who figured out his ties to Slytherin’s lineage, the better. He was infinitely proud of his blood and his magic, but his _heritage_ –

Tom paused in his thoughts to grimace at the bar. 

One thing was to be a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, a powerful dark wizard and a founder of Hogwarts. A completely other thing was descending from a wretched union between a weak-minded muggle man from a minor noble house and a near-squib, inbred and senseless pureblood girl from a family on near-ruin with history of insanity and physical assault.

It was a bloody miracle he turned out as he did, considering the circumstances.

Tom stopped for a moment to palm his face, chagrined despite himself.

“Because I turned out amazingly,” he deadpanned to himself, sarcasm heavy on his tongue.

When he’d been younger, he’d focused so heavily on the fact he was descended from Slytherin that when he’d tracked down the remaining of his family and discovered his heritage, he’d killed them all on the spot. Thinking back on his behaviour even before insanity took hold of him, it was clear he hadn’t turned out half as great as he could’ve been.

He thought the fault lied with his mother, for not fighting for survival when he’d needed her to, but the woman had been terrorized so badly in her childhood that magic had basically given up on her. He wasn’t anywhere near happy about where life took him, but to think about what would’ve become of him had she survived to raise him sent shivers up his spine.

Unlike the purebloods he’d exploited during his wars, he didn’t need to rely on his family history to command respect. The Gaunts hadn’t received any respect by being descended from Slytherin, and neither had he if he hadn’t worked for it. Several families claimed descendance from the founders, but few had anything to show for it.

He would create and uphold his own legacy. A family wasn’t necessary.

01001001 00100111 01101101

“Here you go, lad. I think this might be Spanish,” the bartender offered, attempting to read the small writing on the bottle.

Tom sighed and motioned for the bottle. The man handed it to him, and Tom read the label.

“It’s Portuguese,” the teen concluded, filling his glass. 

“It’s one of my better wines,” the man hedged, “the market for good wine is suffering, you see,” the man continued, placing his hand under the table. Tom raised an eyebrow at him. The man coughed, looking uncomfortable.

“And I should care, because?”

“…Because I’ll provide you with more wine?” the man spoke quietly – _hopefully_.

“The coupon plan on alcohol is not working out very well for you, is it?” Tom said, taking a sip.

It was decent – thank Salazar.

The man sighed. “No. The coupons help distribute my wares more evenly between soldiers and civilians, but I stand to experience huge deficits on wine, if – when, the war ends,” the man told him sadly.

“I see. Tell you what – if you provide me with three more bottles of wine of this quality, or better, I will pay you for four under the table. No coupons involved. I get wine and you don’t lose money,” Tom proposed, and the bartender looked enthusiastic and quickly agreed.

While the bartender went to forge his own records, Tom took out some British notes and concentrated for a minute. Some feats of wandless magic were more challenging than others, and the copy charm was one of them. 

The muggle told Tom he could collect his bottles the next morning to avoid suspicion and Tom agreed, discreetly handing the muggle the money he desired.

“Pleasure doing business with you, sir,” the man said formally with a pleased smile on his face. 

“Likewise.” Now he had something to enjoy in Hogwarts and a muggle willing to provide him with more.

A man then sat down to his right and, opposed to Tom, was wearing a military uniform. The young muggle ordered a glass of gin, then looked to Tom’s wine.

“That looks like some fine shite,” he told Tom, and the wizard nodded agreeably, taking a sip. The soldier looked nonplussed for a moment, seeing that his quip hadn’t worked as intended.

“A ponce like you must’ve missed that out there,” the muggle sneered.

Tom looked at the muggle from the corner of his eye, draining his glass. He took hold of his bottle and refilled.

Another couple of glasses should suffice, he mused.

The soldier frowned at him, clearly desiring attention.

“What, too fancy to talk to me?” the muggle asked, gesturing towards him with consternation. A few seconds passed before he got an answer.

“I came here to reflect on my day, not to have a child in a uniform attempt at insulting me,” Tom spoke, feeling distinctly bothered that he couldn’t get a minute of peace to himself.

“Did you just call me a child? I’m clearly older than you – what are you? Eighteen, nineteen years old?” the man demanded, insulted.

“You’re a child, crying for attention,” Tom repeated, “ – I don’t have the patience to deal with it. Leave me.”

The man stared at him, stupidly. He was probably about to retort, but a couple of men from the poker tables called him over. The young soldier gave him a lasting look that Tom didn’t care for, grabbed his gin and left Tom alone at the table.

“He’s frustrated. He just lost a mate of his – don’t hold it against him,” a voice spoke to his left.

Tom sighed tiredly, again. He supposed he couldn’t expect to be left to his lonesome, looking like he did.

“His problems are no concern of mine.” And muggle hunting was sadly illegal, so he couldn’t put the muggle out of his misery without another visit from the Aurors. 

“They’re not,” the man said, agreeing. “My name is Howard Smith,” he introduced needlessly. He looked a tad older than the previous one, but that might’ve just been the wear on his face. The muggle about looked as tired as Tom felt.

“…Samuel,” he offered reluctantly after a moment of thought.

“You don’t look like a Samuel.”

“Imagine that.” He didn’t feel like a Tom either. Or a Voldemort, for that matter.

The man shrugged and chugged from his bottle, then regarded Tom. “Fancy a game? Brown was right – you look like you have money to burn.” The muggle grinned and the wizard looked at him, flashing the Gaunt ring briefly.

“Looking at this, are you?”

“I’m neither confirming, nor denying that, mate,” the soldier smiled cunningly.

Tom smiled softly and leaned closer, confusing the muggle.

“It’s a family heirloom,” he started, “but it’s said that it’s cursed.”

“A cursed heirloom? Are you having a laugh?” The muggle cackled, and Tom tapped a finger on the stone.

“Indeed. It is said that if a person, who doesn’t descend from the family, touches the stone, the person will become insane,” Tom said, and removed the ring from his finger. “My family is broke, unfortunately. I just spent my last pounds, so this is all I’ll have to bargain with.” The soldier laughed once more and waved over his friends, his former table guest included.

“Did you hear that, mates. The lad has a cursed family heirloom. You think it’s worth winning in a game of cards?”

The other young soldiers quickly agreed, but one older gentleman, who wore a slightly different uniform spoke up at the table. “If he’s gonna bet jewellery, I wanna have a look at it. My brother is a jeweller,” the man said with confidence, holding out a hand.

“You sure you wanna do that Freddie? Lad says the ring is haunted –“

“ _Cursed,_ ” one of the men interjects pointedly, correcting the first.

“Yeah, _cursed._ Sure it’s worth the risk?” The young man grinned, all teeth and jests. How the military trusted this bunch with guns and explosives was beyond him.

“I think I’ll take my chances,” the older uniformed man scoffed, and Tom strode over and handed the ring to the muggle.

“ _Do_ perform whatever inspections you desire. We’ll want this game to be fair, won’t we?” Tom said, staring the muggle down meaningfully from his position. His ring was laced heavily with dark magic, but to the muggle the ugly piece of jewellery probably just felt cold and uncomfortable to hold.

It wasn’t in any manner cursed, however.

He observed the man looking his ring over, looming over the muggle. He must’ve felt uncomfortable, because he turned the ring exactly twice and swiftly handed the ring back, nodding as he did.

“Looks legit,” the man said a little too quickly, his accent making a strange shift. The other soldiers raised an eyebrow at the man in question, but he refused anyone eye contact. They looked at each other for a moment, then at Tom, shrugged and then decided to find their seats.

Muggle hunting might be off the table at this time, but muggle _baiting_ was still very much legal. A fact Tom fully intended to abuse.

00100000 01101110 01101111

“I’m out,” a young ginger recruit spoke sullenly, throwing down his cards.

“Leave your money on the table, mate, I’ll be needing it!” said his friend boisterously, sitting as one of three people left at the table – the new kid included.

He hadn’t said a word since he sat down. Incredibly unsociable, that one.

It was dark outside, the light from the street lamps barely reaching through the windows. The man manning the bar had switched their overhead lighting for candles a little while ago to save on electricity. He and the young soldiers he’d been speaking with earlier were the last ones left at the pub, save a couple of occupants by the bar.

It really wasn’t that late, but looking at the kid, one should think he’d been awake from four a.m. till now. He looked exhausted, but somehow _still_ managed to stay in the game.

His game was unaggressive at start. He played cautiously, and Frederick had been playing poker long enough to recognize mediocrity when he saw it.

Yet, the kid knew exactly what to do – he played with a goal, and Frederick somehow felt winning wasn’t it.

For example – he always revealed his cards after each round he’d folded, which was peculiar. Studying his cards after every fold, and connecting it to the time he opted out, it was as if he knew exactly when to call it quits in order to stay in the game.

That thought was frankly ridiculous however, so Frederick had decided it must be coincidence.

He made eye contact with the young soldier in front of him as they received two new cards, earning the spent attention of coal-black eyes.

“We’ve all kept the pool low for you lad,” Frederick said to the boy. “That ring of yours is pretty, but its value won’t measure if we go much higher. You sure you wanna keep going?” he chuckled.

Samuel’s thumb ran over his lip distractedly, inspecting his cards with a bored expression.

“I’m certain,” he spoke for the first time in a while, voice fairly deep for his age. Frederick then realized Samuel hadn’t actually told them how old he was.

“How old did you say you were, lad?” he asked curiously, calling absentmindedly after Samuel did so.

“I didn’t,” the lad paused, studying the three cards on the table – An eight of spades, a king of spades and a nine of hearts.

He looked at his own cards – ten of hearts and seven of diamonds. Potential.

“I’ll be turning eighteen the thirty-first of December,” he spoke then, and Frederick sat up straight, as did some of the spectators who’d already lost their seats.

“You can’t be serious lad, that’s too young to be in service! You should be in training still!” one soldier yelled incredulously.

Brown shook his head. “I took you for nineteen, but you act like a forty-year-old,” the man chortled, and the very young soldier raised a lazy eyebrow, resting his cheek in his palm. A new card was dealt.

“I had no other option, I’m afraid,” he told them idly and ignored the comment – calling.

Frederick’s brows furrowed. No option? That meant forced – which meant criminal or homeless, or something along those lines. Did the kid hope to win some money to get back on his feet?

Regardless, Frederick didn’t care. It wasn’t his problem. He called.

His straight made him confident he’d win the round.

Their third player determinedly made an all-in, after which he and Samuel were forced to call. When everyone eventually checked, said player banged his fists on the table dramatically and stood, broke. His two pairs evidently hadn’t cut it.

“It’s just you and me lad, good job,” he praised dutifully. Not that the kid acknowledged it in any way, to his annoyance.

Frederick narrowed his eyes then, concentrating on the game. He felt a headache come on. The atmosphere was jovial. The others had finished consoling the British soldier who lost, resulting in laughs and another round of drinks and snacks for the spectators. He didn’t know them very well yet.

The quite frankly rude kid had finished his wine a while ago and had refused any more.

He made eye contact with his opponent one more time, but then something happened – something extremely unexpected.

It was as if everything was suddenly day light. The suddenness of it froze him in his seat. Every shadow disappeared, and the windows radiated sun light, causing Frederick to blink and rub his eyes.

“You alright there, Freddie?” one of his acquaintances asked then. It sounded far away.

“What the hell happened? Why is there light?!” he ground out, but when he opened his eyes he was blinded again, but this time by the dimness of the room.

_‘What…’_

“…Light?” the others mumbled confusedly, shooting him concerned looks. Everything was back to normal.

Frederick rubbed his eyes again and shook his head. He must be tired.

“Never mind it,” he said sourly, inspecting his cards. An ace of hearts and a queen of clubs. 

On the table laid another ace, a two and another queen.

 _‘This looks promising,’_ he thought, pleased.

“Hm..” the kid who called himself Samuel hummed, and raised his hand, indicating a raise.

His ring didn’t have any value left, and he knew that. _‘Kid must be confident.’_

“I call,” he said.

“Check,” Samuel decided to verbalize.

Frederick couldn’t help grinning, so incredibly confident he’d walk home with extra heavy pockets that night.

After checking, he revealed his pair of aces and queens.

Except – he looked at his cards again and stopped, eyes widening, and mouth opened in shock.

His ace was now a three of spades.

“Hah! What the fuck kind of hand is that, Freddie!” someone guffawed.

“Wait,” he said loudly, shaking his head. “Something happened to my cards! I swear I had a pair of aces!”

“What aces?”

“What do you –“ he tried, before he stopped up again. He looked at Riddle’s cards and saw he had two aces and three queens.

_‘But that doesn’t make any sense! I had a pair of queens and there was only one queen on the ta–‘_

But there wasn’t. In his hand sat a three of spades and a six of heart, and the table suddenly had two queens. Riddle sat with an ace and a queen in hand, looking infuriatingly indifferent about it.

“Who’s switching my cards around?!” he yelled as he stood up, looking around him.

“You should sit down, mate,” Smith said, suddenly serious.

“My hand was good! He stole my cards!” he cried as he pointed at Samuel, who sent him a quick quirk of his lips, that only he noticed, before reverting to his customary bland expression. 

That little shit was toying with him!

“No one’s stealing anybody’s cards – sit down,” Smith repeated, taking hold of his shoulder.

“NO! He took my cards!”

“Calm the fuck down, Fred!” someone said forcefully.

“But those are _not_ my cards!”

“That’s got to be the worst attempt at cheating I’ve ever witnessed,” someone voiced in disbelief.

“I’m not cheating! _He’s_ cheating! There was a bright light and –“

“What light? And I’ve been looking at the two of you the whole time, he couldn’t’ve cheated,” a resolute soldier stated with conviction.

He looked around him, his fists clenched. Several men looked ready to restrain him.

He then looked at the table again – at the ring. The kid picked it up and put it on once more, gathering the money and other knick-knacks that he’d won.

The others noticed his stare and burst out laughing.

“Seems you were right lad, your ring is fucking cursed. Fred’s gone barmy!” he hooted loudly, causing the others to join in.

“I haven’t gone barmy, you _arsch_ holes!” he argued vehemently, waving his arms around. Something fell out of his sleeve and everyone stopped laughing.

“You goddamned cheater, _there_ is your ace! Did you forget to switch’em or something?!” a soldier taunted as he picked up the card and threw it onto the table.

“I didn’t put it there!” he yelled. He sounded insane. What the hell was happening? _‘I didn’t put the card there, I had it in my hand!’_ he swore to himself, half-trying to convince himself that he hadn’t in fact gone crazy.

“Right, I think this game is over,” Smith said and downed his drink. He gave him a significant look and then regarded the kid.

“We’ll take care of this wanker – no problem,” he promised, and the accursed kid nodded. ‘ _Take care?’_

“As you wish. Have a pleasant night,” Samuel said as he put on his coat and walked towards the door. The barman sent a cheerful farewell and received a half-hearted wave in return.

Frederick sat down heavily, face blank and head filled with too many questions.

He barely noticed it as the soldiers took hold of him and moved him out into the street.

01110100 00100000 01101001

Tom slept exceptionally well that night.

He thought it must’ve been a combination of the alcohol in his blood and the pure exhaustion he’d accumulated during the day. One didn’t simply alter history, win a ridiculous amount of money and muggle-bait a soldier into insanity without contracting some measure of tiredness – _in a day._

Tom took a bite from his croissant as he read his paper.

He’d already picked up his illegal contraband a couple of hours earlier, after which he’d received a firm handshake and the promise of future business, if desired – which it very much was, because Tom dreaded the thought of having to resort to stealing from muggles. Having a willing supplier was honestly preferable, and much less of a hassle. 

He’d cleaned out his trunk to make space for the bottles. When he arrived at Hogwarts he would apply some expansion charms, but until then he’d make do with what he had. In his process of organization, he’d decided to throw out multiple books and notebooks, because he found them immensely unnecessary to hold onto.

He highly doubted that the secret of immortality lied in an astronomy book. Hence, it was discarded. Tom also got rid of his Latin, Gaelic, Persian and Icelandic dictionaries since he’d memorized them all already. Multiple dark arts books found in a secret compartment also got the boot, purely based on their current irrelevance.

Tom knew he’d have to start up his research again soon, but the books he wanted weren’t accessible here. Luckily, he knew where to go. The question was _when._

The very much refreshed Dark Lord left his paper on the bench he’d occupied, then left to retrace his steps – back to the orphanage. He had business to do.

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	7. Reparatio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the interest! I’m updating from a hotel in Germany atm – the internet is dreadful. If you have any questions or recommendations, please don't hesitate to leave a comment!

Unfortunately, the orphanage still stood a week after he left.

Personally, he’d prefer to burn it down again, but that would attract too much attention. Even coming here was a risk since people were undoubtedly looking for him. He’d use a notice-me-not, but when one was actively sought after, the charm’s effectivity was diminished considerably.

Alas, not worth the effort.

The time was eight thirty a.m. and people were gradually making their way to work. The streets were slowly starting to fill up, so Tom felt it was an opportune time for optimal obscurity.

The sun was already hanging high on the sky, partly covered by the standard cloudy weather of Britain. Despite the time of the day, the lighting still didn’t do the ugly building any favours.

Knowing the neighbours that he knew from his childhood, burning the building down might’ve actually been considered a blessing – damn the orphans.

Tom had no good memories of the place.

But that wasn’t quite right. He did have _one_ – the day Albus Dumbledore came and opened his eyes for the world of magic.

In this aspect, he had to admit that he wasn’t any different from the typical muggleborn, except for the fact that he’d practiced _focused_ wandless magic against the other orphans beforehand, and so wasn’t surprised to hear he was magical.

He let out a light chuckle at the memory, his eyes resting on the window to his room.

For most of his childhood, Tom had thought he was a _demon_ – not a wizard. He hadn’t been alone in that thought.

Finishing his musings, he stepped up to the front door and opened it. He was technically still a resident, after all – however much he might’ve wished otherwise.

The entrance hall tied into the eating area, creating an open space with a direct line of sight to the stairs. Two long tables lined with wooden benches were put up, where several young faces in the midst of breakfast peered up at him with nervous expressions, others with fear – and some with hope. _They_ were the ones who knew that leaving the orphanage without permission usually warranted punishment, and in extreme cases – expulsion.

Tom sent the hopeful ones a shrewd smile.

His gesture was met with instant regret, his reputation being exactly what he remembered it to be.

He sorely wanted to erase all their memories of him, but he also knew that wouldn’t be feasible without frying their little minds. He’d deal with them when he had full access to his wand.

Tom left the orphans and moved through the opening to the right, and into a hallway.

At the end, Madam Cole’s office lied.

The woman that’d raised him had already been long dead when he’d burned the building down the last time – much to his disappointment.

He knocked politely on her door, after which a terse voice told him to _leave_ and finish his breakfast.

That just wouldn’t do.

He opened the door anyway and walked in, closing the door securely behind him. The door had been locked, but that hardly stopped him.  

The lighting was low, and the curtains were drawn, allowing the decrepit old hag to use candlelight at her desk. Said hag sat up straighter at the interruption, then dropped her pen at seeing Tom standing before her, waiting.

“Tom…” she said surprised, and wary.

“Madam Cole.”

She carefully pushed her writing appliances to the side, placing old wrinkled hands on the surface of her desk, curled in uncertainty. The light flickered, and the woman found her voice.

“Where have you been?” The demand was met with silence.

“Nothing was taken from your room, we assumed… something had happened,” she trailed off questioningly, still regarding him with immense caution.

The lack of care or any manner of sincerity was telling.

“Something did happen,” Tom confirmed and moved closer to the elderly woman. Madam Cole instantly leaned back in her seat and narrowed her eyes in spiteful suspicion.

“Cease your little mind games Tom Riddle – they won’t work on me,” she hissed at him, giving up any pretence of concern. “Now tell me where you’ve been, or I’ll throw you out on the street like the _hell spawn_ you are.”

Tom sent her a patronising smile and placed his hands on her desk, staring her down. He could nearly hear her frail heart beating – she was scared of his behaviour.

“No need for that, Madam Cole. I’ll be leaving shortly,” he drawled as he made eye contact with her. He consciously applied a compulsion for her to not avert her eyes and leaned closer still, intensifying their link.

The rosary in her hand was clutched tightly – though it’d provide her no help.

“Hold still for me, I’ll be done in a moment.” His words caused the woman to pale in fright. She opened her mouth to probably scream or call for help, but not a sound escaped her.

“We’re playing my _mind games_ , Madam Cole – the rules are mine. _No screaming_ ,” he stressed softly as his sharp eyes bored into hers. Tom was sure the old woman was on the verge of a heart attack – her trembling was _incessant._  

Tom tore through whatever natural defences existed in her subconscious, the pain of the intrusion causing tears to ebb at the corners of her eyes. The wizard savoured her mounting terror as he riffled through the strings of her memories.

Target in mind, he brought up a metaphysical picture of himself, his name, his origin – then traced it back to the beginning. To his birth.

“There you are…” he whispered as the vision of a _dying_ , screaming woman appeared in his mind’s eye. His mother.

Madam Cole cried.

Tom took a moment and held onto the memory, resting his attention on her pale, sweaty face and the blood soaking the _floor_ she was lying on. His mother was in agony, delirious with pain as Madam Cole and the previous matron of the orphanage attempted to help her. She was truly…

Pitiful.

Lying there on her death bed – floor – she was everything he ever expected her to be. Completely unworthy and a waste of magic. She was the foundation of his belief that power triumphed over bloodlines, fortunes and ethicism – over the concepts of light and dark, of good and evil, of right and wrong.

The woman on the floor bled out as the make-shift midwives took hold of him and placed him in a bundle of cloths. She whimpered pathetically as the life was drained from her, as the muggles watched, unable to save her.

_“…H-His name… His name is… Tom Marvolo Riddle…After…After his father – and mine…”_ Merope Gaunt rasped out in a deathly whisper, a deranged smile briefly dancing across her lips.

Tom knew she could’ve saved herself. A potion. A spell. Anything. But she didn’t. She had relinquished all control and all motivation and just laid there – _ashamed_ – ready to die.

And she got what she wanted.

The life left her eyes and for Tom, watching this moment solidified the belief he’d held for as long as he could remember.

_‘There is no good or evil, only power and those too weak to seek it_ …’ (J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone)

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Tom couldn’t perform Obliviations _effectively_ without a wand, so he was limited to whatever he could accomplish with Legilimency. As he wanted to preserve the sanity of his victim, he couldn’t risk bulldozing through Madam Cole’s memories and destroying her mind in the process. It would be too suspicious and would draw attention to the fact that someone had tampered with her head.

Instead, Tom had to be creative.

Starting at her earliest memory of him, he… _twisted..._ the narrative slightly. He changed what name she could remember him by, what appearance he had, how she perceived him as a person. Under a truth serum, or something similar like a Confundus charm, her stories would seem more believable, and she’d be able to consciously disassociate him from any child she’d ever taken under her roof.

But most importantly, she couldn’t tell anyone where he’d gotten his name.

The other orphans didn’t know that Tom was named after his father, and so their perception of him was negligible compared to the matron of the orphanage. She wouldn’t be able to remember him as he was, unless a dedicated Legilimens ripped apart her mind again, and the children would be comparatively unhelpful, contradicting everything the matron said.

Until Tom could freely use his wand, this would have to do. He’d revisit the problem in January.

He left Madam Cole unconscious at her desk, his records _erased_ , after which he made a brief detour to ‘his’ room. As he’d expected, there wasn’t really anything of interest, aside from some muggle fiction and a couple of science books. Nevertheless, Tom took hold of everything that had his name on it and _vanished_ it with a swift ‘ _Evanesco’ –_ the flow of that particular spell being very familiar to him.

As he worked, he noticed that a couple of young girls that’d been following him as he’d ascended the stairs were peering at him through the door. He’d made sure they hadn’t seen any of the items vanish, but they were likely still wondering where they’d gone.

He turned around and locked eyes with them, startling them slightly with his suddenness. Tom softened his eyes deliberately and curled his index finger at them in a come-hither gesture, telling them to come in. They seemed incredibly wary, but also smart enough to know that obeying was surely the best course of action.

“Enter,” he ordered, and the two blonde girls, unlikely to be sisters, slowly moved to stand in front of him, holding hands in support.

They seemed to be around eight years of age and were quite small. Every child was, in this place.

“I’m assuming you know who I am?” he asked them, and the girls looked at each other briefly, one of them nodding shortly thereafter.

“Speak, when I ask you a question,” he commanded sternly, and the girls lowered their heads a little and answered with diminutive yes’s.

“Good.” He knelt on one knee in front of them and lifted one of the girls’ heads at her chin.

“Now, look at me when I talk to you,” he demanded softly.

“Yes, sir,” she said quietly, looking into his eyes with immense caution.

_‘Clever girl.’_

“Would you like to help me with something?” he questioned with what was hopefully a calming smile.

The girls looked extremely unsure of themselves, caught off-guard by the question, but the braver one decided to voice her thoughts regardless.

“With what?”

“Nothing too difficult, believe me. I’m sure a pair of diligent girls like you can handle the job,” he assured them, slowly making them feel at ease in his presence.

“I need you to _listen_ for me,” he specified, and the girls tilted their heads, befuddled.

“What are we listening for?” the smaller one asked, curious.

“ _Everything_ , my dear. Next time I come to visit, you will tell me who has been by, what they said, and if you can, you will tell me what they were doing here,” he explained in a kind tone and the girls pressed their lips together. They clearly had questions but were trying to restrain themselves.

Sensing the urge, Tom held out his palm encouragingly. They slowly took hold of his hand and looked at him curiously.   

“Your head is brimming with thoughts,” he said and the littlest one shyly looked away. “Go on,” he urged.

It took a moment of consideration, but the girl tightened her grip on a couple of his fingers and looked to him again.

“If we listen for you, will you please put a curse on Albert?” she asked with the strongest tone of voice she could muster. Her friend stifled a gasp and moved both her hands in front of her mouth.

“Beatrice…!” she wheezed, horrified. Her eyes switched between Beatrice and Tom, whom could feel his curiosity surge lightly.  

The dark wizard let out a sudden chuckle and took hold of the girl’s hand, giving her a smile that was all teeth. He _marvelled_ at her audacity.

“Little girl – are you accusing me of witchcraft?” he grinned, black eyes alight with dark amusement. It wasn’t unexpected that the children of the orphanage had made up certain theories about him.

She shook her head hastily, her blonde locks flying around her head in a shower of pale gold.

“No!” she denied quickly, but noticing that he wasn’t offended in the slightest, she eventually submitted. “…maybe – a little,” she admitted quietly, and her friend looked scandalized.

How positively _blasphemous._

Tom hummed in thought and stood up, moving to the bed. He motioned for Beatrice to join him and she hurriedly climbed up, rearranging her skirt to sit comfortably. She clasped her hands together in her lap, sending him a few nervous looks. Her friend slowly moved to sit by her friend, on the floor, holding on to her knees. It was clear that the other girl supported the notion but was uncomfortable with the circumstances.

The dark wizard stared at the girl, attempting to detangle the myriad of thoughts flying through her young mind. One thing was certain – she was _determined._

“Tell me of Albert. Why is he deserving of a curse?” he asked Beatrice, who started fiddling with the lace on her bracelet.

“He… he’s – horrible!” she exclaimed without preamble. “He… my daddy, he went to try and make him stop, but he didn’t! He just kept sending his airplanes into the sky, even tho’ people told not to, and – and, and daddy told me to stay in the basement with mommy, but…” she stopped, crying a steady flow of tears. Her friend moved to pat her head and smooth her hair as Beatrice attempted to collect her bearings.

Tom waited patiently. The course of events was undeniably common among orphans of this time, so Tom wasn’t surprised in the least. 

“Daddy and mommy are gone now, and it’s Albert’s fault,” she summarized with as much anger she could muster, her teary blue eyes beseeching him to understand her plight.

“Please curse him!” she pleaded with him once more.

He slowly placed his hand on her head and stroked her hair, purposefully sending a wave of _calm_ through her mind, having had quite enough of the hysteria. Her shaking slowly stopped and her breath returned to her.

“Beatrice,” he started soothingly as he petted her hair as one would a stressed kitten, “his name isn’t Albert, and I’m afraid I cannot do anything to him at the moment,” he told her as gently as he could. Her crying slowly renewed as she hung her head.

Tom let out a sigh of light exasperation.

“Why not?” she sniffled. Tom grimaced.

He didn’t enjoy the sight of crying children. They were unable to control their emotions and required an untold amount of attention. It was rarely worth the effort, but some children grew up to develop aptitude, opinions and _potential._

Tom knew from personal experience that disregarding children could be immensely dangerous. Their capacity for destruction equalled any other person’s, and that was worth bearing in mind.

A child had killed him, and _he_ , as a child, had killed. 

And now this girl was asking him – a Dark Lord – to curse another, in exchange for a job. It was completely coincidental but imagine the _implications._

Tom wasn’t opposed to cursing Adolf because he didn’t want to. He _couldn’t_ curse Adolf, because circumstances sadly didn’t allow. Had it been different – a different _time_ – then little Beatrice had likely gotten her wish.

Wasn’t that a scary thought?

Instead, he let out a long sigh and looked into her eyes with a serious expression.

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me Beatrice,” he stated, and the little girl bit her lip anxiously. “I cannot curse Adolf at the moment, but,” he paused and sent the girl a mischievous smile that had likely resulted in the death of hundreds in another life.

“Someday, maybe I will.”

The little girls’ eyes widened in excitement, hope radiating off their little teary-eyed faces –possessing absolutely no understanding of their actions.

“Okay, Tom” the taller girl nodded at him from the floor, promoting her approval.

“Yeah,” Beatrice assented, looking from her hands to his eyes, “I’m sure you’ll do your best,” she assured him, to his amusement. Children were so innocent – which was interchangeably entertaining and sickening, depending on the children in question.

“Let’s hope I do,” he agreed.

Shortly after, he left Beatrice and her friend in his – former – room and left the orphanage.

The task he wanted performed wasn’t particularly daunting for them, as he’d glean any significant events from their heads when next they met and wouldn’t require any detailed reports.

Conclusively, they had consented to act as his little spies, which was both interesting and humorous.

To think, a little muggle girl unintentionally tried to contract him to kill Hitler.

_‘Funniest thing since 1951,_ ’ he thought as he made his way out of the orphanage, strangely delighted by the whole affair.

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Tom wanted sorely to make a trip to Little Hangleton to thoroughly erase any witnesses of his presence in the town, but once again – it wasn’t exactly optimal. His fix would have to do, for the time being.

He was running out of time.

The day after his visit to the orphanage, he’d decided to heed the advice of his Hogwarts letter and buy the required appliances. Except – he didn’t.

Tom had skimmed the titles and authors of the first few books and subsequently decided that reading the rest was unnecessary.

The books were heavily theory based and wouldn’t provide him with anything of value that he didn’t already remember or could deduce by himself.

Again, being a master at Occlumency came in handy. It didn’t work like instant, natural, eidetic memory, but rather as a mental catalogue that he could access when in need of something specific. In theory, he remembered everything, but not in the same manner he remembered something as banal as the current date or the basic theory of Transfiguration.

It was more selective than that. Like a pensieve for information. He could consciously decide which information was relevant and could with effort pull forth information that he hadn’t thought about or worked with for a long time.

If he said he didn’t remember something, something _undoubtedly_ irrelevant, it was because he didn’t care for exerting the effort of extracting the information from the absolute mountain of data that he’d collected over a lifetime.

His intellect kept the most important magics and theories easily accessible, but if he wanted to, say – remember what was said on page sixty-eight, line forty-one in the two-hundred and eleventh edition of the _Basic Guide to Magical Self-defence and why the Basics are Necessary_ , then he’d have to take a moment to completely recall it. It would in no manner be instant, but entirely possible for him.

But he digressed – he’d read these books once, and if absolutely needed, he’d be able to recall them.

_Ergo_ – not worth the money.

Tomorrow he’d end his short self-imposed exile and would have to reassess his position. He had snuck into the Leaky Cauldron the day before to steal a wizarding newspaper and knew that The Daily Prophet and Wizarding World News were still flinging conspiracy theories left and right, ranging from Tom being a seer, to having fixed the game in cooperation with the Quidditch League, and all the way to it all being an elaborate assassination scheme orchestrated by Grindelwald.

But most infuriatingly, the Daily Prophet had – in obvious cooperation with Witch Weekly – posted pictures of him, with quite frankly nauseating theories about his illusive origin.

_Apparently_ , he was an exiled prince of the recently abolished magical monarchy of Venice, sent to an orphanage in England because he needed absolute _anonymity_ in order to hide from the regicidal Italian wizards out for his noble blood.

How they thought this article would help, he couldn’t fathom.

Alternatively, he was the abandoned bastard child of a rich Irish pureblood, whose determination to retain an heir in obscurity lead to Tom being hidden away as a last resort in case his wife was unable to provide him with satisfactory offspring.

There were several more ridiculous theories like these. Some questioning his real name, his blood status, his ability as a wizard – and his _looks._

_‘Absolutely preposterous.’_

Reading through the tabloid, it was clear Witch Weekly was attempting to use him as a marketing tool – pulling in young witches and wizards towards a juicy mystery to sell papers.  

Tom was certain the students of Hogwarts were concocting all sorts of vile hypotheses, which Tom would be delighted to burn as soon as he could.

It was necessary – really. Tom had _not_ consented to become some sort of celebrity.

_‘The parallels between Harry Potter and I are disconcerting sometimes’,_ he admitted to himself with a vague sense of trepidation.

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Pericles took a deep breath and knocked on the door to his father’s study again.

No reaction. The dark oak wooded doors remained stubbornly closed and Pericles remained ignored. He placed a hand on the handle and rested his forehead on the door, sighing heavily.

“This is necessary,” he muttered.

“Pericles? What are you doing lounging against my door?”

The Auror whirls around to see his father striding towards him, Wizengamot clothes still on and his customary scowl edged on greying features.

“Father,” he greeted as he straightened his back and lowered his head slightly for a second in respect.

“Son,” Perseus Parkinson the second acknowledged. “Do we have an appointment?”

“Not as such, no – but if you’re amendable, of course, could I perhaps discuss something with you?” Pericles made a conscious effort to sound as assertive as possible, without coming off as too demanding.

His father ignored his efforts.

“I am busy Pericles. Unless this pertains to significant happenings in the Auror force that I should be aware of, then this discussion of yours can wait, indefinitely,” the man told him as he opened his doors and shrugged off his purple ministry robes.

With a deep breath, Pericles ignored the hurt he felt and strode in after his father, pulling out a couple of newspapers from his robes.

“This does concern you, father,” he appealed, closing the door behind him.

His father’s expression transitioned into one of curiosity, as Pericles placed two papers on his desk, opened at specific pages. Lines and comments dotted all corners of the pages, but one thing seemed to catch the attention of his father.

“What in Merlin’s name is that?” Perseus questioned tightly.

“I’ve been told it’s an ‘airplane’ – muggle method of flying,” Pericles explained to the older man as he studied the picture closely.

“It isn’t moving,” Perseus stated.

“No, apparently muggle newspapers don’t do that – puzzled me as well, at first,” Pericles admitted.

“ _Muggle_ newspaper? Why have you given me this?” his father questioned contemptuously, holding it a tad farther away from his body that previously.

“That’s what I wanted to discuss with you father. I’ve been made aware of some absolutely _horrifying_ connections – some of which I’ll be bringing to my superiors in the Auror department soon.” Pericles gently took the paper from his father and placed it back down beside the other.

“I thought I’d share my discovery with you, first, to gage your reaction,” he finished, beckoning his father closer, to have a look.

His father didn’t like having his time wasted, so Pericles had to phrase this right, so he’d understand. His father already looked impatient with him.

“Go on then – tell me how your _muggle paper_ could possibly legitimise your ‘discovery.’” The words were harsh and devoid of belief.

Pericles steadied himself. “I believe – that the war against the Dark Lord Grindelwald, and the war the muggles are waging amongst themselves – might be connected.”

“What nonsense are you speaking, boy?” his father demanded.

“I know it sounds –“

“Absurd. And absolutely not what I sent you to the Auror Academy for. Unless you have something of _worth_ to tell me –“

“But I do!” Pericles interrupted heatedly. “If you would just _listen_ , instead of debunking a statement without hearing the evidence supporting it! – A practice which is _quite possibly_ killing common sense in the ministry as we speak. I didn’t come here today to waste your time with fantasies father – I implore you to let me perform the task you set me, without disregarding me when I do so!”

Pericles breathed heavily, determinately maintaining eye contact with his father, who appeared to sway between feeling righteously disrespected and considering of his plight.

The man narrowed his eyes dangerously at his son, then leisurely made his way around his desk to sit. Pericles expected he’d be told to leave the premises, but his father folded his hands in front of his mouth and gifted him with his attention.

“Very well,” the visibly displeased man finally stated, “continue regaling me with your findings."

Pericles exhaled slowly in relief. He moved the papers in front of his father again and pointed to an article in Wizarding World News.

“I’ve read that one – tragic,” the man grunted with disinterest.

The article detailed an event in Netherland, where their ministry’s high-security artefact archive in Rotterdam was attacked by Grindelwald’s forces a couple of days ago. While muggle Netherland apparently was occupied by the German muggles, their ministry remained uninvolved in the conflict – much like the wizards and witches of Germany itself.

Pericles then pointed towards an article in the muggle paper.

“Here, it is written that the German muggle army captured and evicted 116 families, between 600 and 800 people, from their homes on the allegation of being Jews or rebels – unexpectedly, because the country has been under siege from 1940 till now – and suddenly these families – a whole block of residents – are all enemies of the state? Even the children?” he explained as he pointed at the black and white picture of a large _ruined_ building in question.

“The exact same day these families were sent to the…concentration camps, the ministry’s archive was breached, because their wards _had failed_ ,” Pericles articulated carefully. “There’s very few ways to disrupt wards like those,” he paused, looking to his father. “The most effective, no doubt, is demolishing the structure that the ward is tied to.”

“The Netherlandish archive was placed directly beneath this building complex, _even still,”_ Pericles stressed with immense frustration, partly with himself, but mostly with wizardkind in general, “The Magical Ministry of Netherland says it was a coincidence! Several wizards were murdered, but nothing was stolen, so they’re celebrating a successful repelling of the attack, without even considering how the attack was made possible in the first place. They describe it as – unfortunate!”  

His father stared at the papers in silence for a few additional moments.

“I agree that these incidents are circumspect at best, but what exactly are you trying to tell me, Pericles? How is this relevant to me?” His father still sounded infuriatingly sceptical, but Pericles was unwavering in his conclusion.

“What I’m trying to say, father, is that there are strong indications that the muggles who’ve been bombing England, and several other countries and major cities for the past 3 years, are _cooperating_ with Gellert Grindelwald. He’s waging a war to dominate muggles, yet – this doesn’t add up.”

His father said nothing.

“This is most certainly not an isolated incident, either,” he continued as he pulled out a piece of parchment with two columns, lined with dates, addresses and events. “A… friend, of mine, made me aware of the correlations, so I went to our archives in the department and wrote down all the details from some of the strangest attacks that Grindelwald has sanctioned around continental Europe, of which most have been considered unsuccessful.”

He moved his finger down the list, and his father’s eyes switched between columns, hardening the farther down he got.

“On the vast majority of incidences, the muggle occupational force struck, and in one way or another, made it possible for Grindelwald to attack the premises. But there’s _more,”_ he rolled on, as he pulled out another piece of parchment.

“Almost every single one of the places attacked in this manner has been archives, libraries, schools or guild offices, meaning… he’s looking for something,” he insisted, locking eyes with his father.

“ – and he’s using the muggles to access it, so he doesn’t waste manpower storming the wards,” his father finished, face hard and uncompromising.

Pericles nodded, internally stupefied at his father’s understanding.

The elderly man then stood, disregarded Pericles and moved towards his door, the parchments clutched in his hand. He stopped. “Good work,” his father said. It sounded like an afterthought.

Pericles was left standing alone in the study, looking at the door with quiet resentment.

“You’re _welcome,”_ he hissed bitterly to the empty room.

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Tom had woken up early on September first and had acquired his breakfast at a nearby bakery.

He then got onto a slightly crowded bus and rode it to Kings Cross Road, where he got off and commenced entering the station. He was early, the train not set to departing for another hour, but Tom wanted to avoid the hubbub of hundreds of children and their families in any way he could.

Furthermore, he wanted to be alone to prepare himself mentally.

He lugged his feather-light trunk behind him, Slytherin insignia and name displayed on the side and wand secured in the inner pocket of his coat. He procured a cup of coffee from a vendor and sat down a little way off the entrance to platform 9 ¾ and relaxed for a couple of minutes. Muggles were milling about their business around him, only occasionally glancing in his direction.

He supposed his exile had at least helped him practice blending in a little better.

He much preferred surrounding himself by the wonders of the magical world, but the little break had been… nice. Still, he was rather looking forward to spending time at Hogwarts, feeding his desire for research. It would be a vacation, of sorts. He needn’t exert himself there and he could go at the pace he desired for once – without all the stress of coordinating a war effort.

If he got around Dumbledore, that is.

The Dark Lord finished his rather bitter coffee, applied a moderately effective notice-me-not charm on his ring and moved through the barrier separating the muggle world from the wizarding world.

Walking out of the entrance, he noticed a woman with an antique camera talking with a couple of young students by the wall.

Rapidly, he picked up his trunk, dodged a couple of early families and moved towards the train with long measured steps. He heard the woman yell after him, but he managed to enter the train before she reached him.

_‘Bloody journalists,’_ he thought with derision as he walked down the length of the train, seeking as far away from the entrance as possible. He hadn’t even had the chance to properly admire the old train before he’d… rushed inside.

At last, he chose a compartment and settled inside, locking the door while he was at it. He pulled out a book from his trunk and sat reading in silence for the next forty minutes.

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His calm was interrupted as the door to his compartment was rattled, and then forcefully pushed against. The door refused to open, and Tom could hear frustrated mumbling from the other side, complaining about some _rules_.

Tom thought he recognized the voice, so he sighed and stood. He unlocked the door and stared the offender down with a look of displeasure.

“What about the rules?” he asked, daring Euphemia Rosier to repeat herself.

She squealed in surprise, turning around to face him with her hands on her mouth. She looked unbelievably embarrassed.

Tom raised an eyebrow at the display. “Contain yourself, Euphemia,” he drawled, before looking to her companions.

He recognized them all. Alphard Black, the younger brother of Walburga by a couple of years, Darius Carrow, Abraxas Malfoy – and Mathias Nott.

“Pleasure seeing you again, Mathias,” he greeted, ignoring the others and retaking his seat, leaving the door open.

The Slytherins were staring at him – stupidly, but he heard Mathias sigh shakily, before he moved to sit opposite him, by the window. “I didn’t know we’d moved to first names…Tom,” he remarked slowly, eying him as one might a loose bear. How _insulting_.

The others slowly followed suit, filling the compartment completely. Abraxas decided to sit next to him, his nose so far up Tom was surprised it wasn’t scraping the ceiling already.

He knew the Malfoy was about to speak, because his mouth opened before any sound came out.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to stop you right there, Abraxas,” Tom told him, “I’m not in the mood for an interrogation.”

The pureblood’s face turned red, but whether it was in anger or embarrassment was yet to be known.

“Well, _Tom,_ I’m not in the mood for any more mystery,” he retorted childishly, after which he took hold of Tom’s book and closed it for him. “What in Salazar’s name happened?”

It would appear this Malfoy was used to having rather liberal conversations with him. Very well, then.  

“I would’ve guessed, since you came in with Mathias, that you would know all about it by now,” he answered, looking to said boy, “didn’t you tell them what happened?” Mathias looked down, and Abraxas scoffed at him.

“He didn’t tell us anything _of use_ ,” the blonde complained with a sneer. Abraxas pulled out three newspapers and moved to shove them at him, but the look on Tom’s face stopped him in his tracks.

Tom motioned calmly for the papers, received them and gave them a superficial reading. He then proceeded to fold them up again and put them back on Abraxas’ trunk.

Everyone was clearly waiting for a reaction, but none was given.

“Merlin’s beard, _Riddle,_ I demand you tell me what you are! You clearly know!” Abraxas suddenly shouted into the compartment, startling Euphemia once again and turning Mathias an unhealthy shade of white in the process.  

Tom narrowed his eyes dangerously at the _boy_ , who had the gall to make demands of him.

“These papers are making – quite frankly – ridiculous theories up about you! I’ve known you for five years, Tom, and never once since _first_ year have I questioned you! I thought you were a bastard, or a halfblood, but to think that no one knows! I can’t be seen with someone who could possibly be a merlin damned _mudblood_ – what would my family say! – and then you go and provoke a riot in a Quidditch Stadium with _Nott,_ of all wizards – not me! Am I not your most trusted, your most – Hhrrck!” he choked, grasping onto his throat in horrified alarm.

He couldn’t get air.

The sudden silence from the Malfoy made every eye on the compartment focus on Tom, who had a couple of fingers aimed in the general direction Abraxas’ throat, eyes dangerously sharp.

“No one – makes demands of me,” he spoke into the silence. Not a single person dared to speak, and Mathias apparently dared not breathe.

He curled his fingers slowly and Abraxas was pulled towards him, until the underside of his jaw was poked painfully by Tom, increasing the boy’s panic as he struggled in vain.

“I hate repeating myself,” Tom started, and still, no one interrupted. “You will speak to me with respect, or not at all. You will conduct yourself with manners, when around me, and not as a spoiled _brat,”_ he hissed, and the young Malfoy coughed weakly for air, eyes wide. Tom let him go and Abraxas wheezed, filling his lungs with air once more.

“My business is my own. Is that understood, _Abraxas?”_ he asked, tone as chilled as the ice in Malfoy’s eyes.

Abraxas coughed out a weak _‘yes’_ , after which Tom picked up his book again and recommenced his reading.

It would be a mostly uncomfortable ride to Hogwarts, he dreaded.

“You can breathe Mathias, I haven’t killed anyone.”

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until next week ~ HOGWARTS


	8. Solliciti

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’ve been made aware that portable coffee wasn’t actually available during the 40’s, which I forgot to check when I wrote that. I’ll make sure to double-check facts like that henceforth. :) 
> 
> Onwards, to the story!

_“You can breathe Mathias, I haven’t killed anyone.”_

At the slightly joking tone, Alphard blew out a chuckle that vibrated the windows.

“Merlin!” he breathed, staring at Tom with fascination. “How long have you been able to _do_ that and can you do it again?” he grinned savagely, waving a hand toward Abraxas’ breathless form.  

The dark wizard sent the Black an expression of aloof amusement, before returning to his book once more. Blacks were always so _excitable._

“What are you reading?” Euphemia questioned out of the blue in her characteristic haughty tone, tucking her wavy brown hair behind an ear as she leaned _a little_ closer – clearly attempting to appease his temper.

Evidently, the other Slytherins had decided that the past two minutes hadn’t happened.

Tom didn’t care in which manner they wished to delude themselves – as long as they _remembered._

He idly noticed that the Malfoy was regaining colour. He was looking sullenly at the others with his legs and arms crossed yet unwilling to rejoin the conversation. _Like a child._

Tom ignored the boy and looked instead to the only female Slytherin in the compartment. “It’s a work of fiction. It’s called _A Passage to India_ ,” he revealed.  

Euphemia Rosier looked surprised. “I didn’t know you read fiction, Tom…” she trailed off, and gave the book a closer look. “I’ve never heard of it before.”

“You wouldn’t. It’s muggle fiction,” Tom said, _absolutely_ anticipating the way her face slacked in bewilderment.

“ _Muggle_ fiction?” She sounded disgusted. It was clear she wanted to make a remark but was unwilling to voice her opinion. Instead, she said “…Do they write… good… fiction?”

“How very articulate of you, Mia,” Darius Carrow spoke for the first time, and Euphemia flushed in embarrassment.

Darius then trailed a lazy eye over the cover of the book. “What is it about, your muggle book?” he asked neutrally, probably trying to appeal to Tom’s ‘preferences.’

This simple exchange was oddly nostalgic. It felt like these days had been more than a hundred years away, instead of fifty. Their personalities and their mannerisms were familiar to him in ways his future followers never managed to make him notice. Like comparing diary entries to pictures in an old photo album.

They were yet only children at this time. Tom couldn’t afford to be distracted by their futures.

Tom earmarked the page and closed it, handing it to Darius. The dark-brown haired Slytherin turned the book to read the back briefly.

“A romance?” he noted questioningly, looking to Tom.

“Not as such, no,” Tom responded, resting his chin in his hand with his elbow against the frame of the window. Darius looked like he wanted elaboration, so Tom indulged him.

“It’s a work exploring the cross-cultural relationships between the British colonists in India and the natives. The book goes on to define the differences between the peoples, their stereotypes, their religions, mainly Christianity, Islam and Hinduism– unrealized expectations, self-discovery through traumatic experiences and the development between cultures vastly different from each other with often contradictory world views and emotional behaviours.”

Everyone stared at him for a couple of seconds.

“…that is… surprisingly complex,” Euphemia admitted, gifting the innocuous book with another glance.

“It sounds like you’ve read it already,” Darius commented, and Tom confirmed.

“I have, when I was younger.” Which was true. He’d read a lot in the orphanage but hadn’t dared bringing any of the books along with him.

“Cross-cultural… Christianity, Islam, Hinduism… a lot of words I’m not sure I understand,” Euphemia admitted uncomfortably. Abraxas scoffed.

“It’s because it’s _muggle_ terms. It’s not supposed to make any sense.”

“I beg to differ, actually,” Tom interjected, causing the blond to quake slightly, before settling again.

“I have yet to read a single piece of _fiction_ written by a witch or wizard that I actually enjoyed,” Tom confided. “Muggle fiction is usually well written, with a realistic point of view and relatable symbolism that you can reflect upon. Usually, the plot is used to convey a certain sentiment or philosophy, which I find very stimulating. It’s a nice change from all the magical theory books I usually read at Hogwarts.”

Even Alphard looked sceptical now. “So you learn something from these books?”

“Every book teaches something – even if only to confirm with yourself that you’re smarter than the author,” Mathias suddenly said. “My brother told me that once, and I’d have to agree.” Though the Nott didn’t sound as repulsed as the others, the comment was clearly a jab at the intellect of muggles.

Tom hummed agreeably however, switching subjects. “How is he progressing?” he asked, and Mathias gave Tom a helpless look in response.

“After what you told him… he decided the best way to get past his aversion – was to throw knives at a tree,” he finished lamely.

“I need context,” Alphard announced, raising a hand.

“Likewise,” Darius seconded.

“Please,” Euphemia echoed, staring at Mathias. “Why did Tom tell Torben to cut up a tree?”

The Nott sighed and rubbed his forehead, looking stressed. It was clear that he didn’t want to be there.

“I told him that if he wanted to perform the Reducto curse, then he’d need to move past his disinclination for destruction,” Tom voiced instead, examining his finger nails. “Clearly, the boy took my advice to heart. Good on him.”

Mathias then gradually retreated into himself again, helpless as he was when it came to dealing with his magic’s reaction to Tom’s presence.

He’d have to acclimate the boy, he decided. He had time.

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Darius had been ‘friends’ with Tom Riddle since their third year – not as long as either Abraxas, Alphard or Mia, but long enough to understand what drove him.

As Slytherins, subtlety, cunningness and ambition were key, but not every Slytherin managed to live up to these expectations that the founder of their house had put forth. Mia wasn’t always subtle enough, Mathias wasn’t cunning enough, Alphard wasn’t subtle _at all_ and Darius… Darius hadn’t found an ambition that drove him yet.

He was undirected.

He received good grades, knew the right people, acted in the correct manner and spoke in the right tone, but he had absolutely no plans for his future. He didn’t know what he wanted yet.

He rode life like a Gryffindor without a plan and had to use his abundance of cunning to make it seem like he knew what he was doing.

It was extremely stressful.

He was the kind person who latched on to a greater influence and used their ambition as his own.

That person was Tom Riddle.

Needless to say; Tom was the whole package. Incorporated every aspect of what a Slytherin should be, with charm to spare.

The Carrow heir had latched on to the perfect example of how a pureblood should conduct oneself, but he, along with the others, had seemingly forgotten something very important –

And now Darius was confused.

One could mistake Tom for a pureblood, as he managed to act, speak and treat others like one, but he was noticeably absent from the social sphere of a pureblooded wizard or witch. Every pureblood child grew up knowing at least five other children in their age group, pushed together by their parents’ circle of associates to create tighter bonds between families. It was normal practice and resulted in relationships being established prior to attending Hogwarts.

And then there is Tom, seamlessly gliding in, as if he was an exchange student from Durmstrang with just as much right to a seat at the table as anyone else.

It had been infuriating for them, when they hadn’t known his origin in their first year, and even more infuriating when he’d ignored all their attempts at excluding him from the house. He’d spoken, learnt, acclimated and integrated himself faster than anyone in Slytherin had thought possible, and now he was a part of their lives.

And they had to deal with it, because Tom didn’t like having his time disrupted by foolhardy Slytherins with an agenda.

But Darius was confused, not only because a reminder of Tom’s background had been summarily punched into his face, but also because this… was a new side to Tom.  

He’d pushed them around a little during spell practice – and certainly threatened them multiple times – but this… this was different.

He’d never attacked someone like he did Malfoy and Darius had to admit that he was…

Eager?

It was strange – this feeling of _anticipation_ that he didn’t understand.

What had happened to Tom during the summer to make him so… animated? Of course, Malfoy had never spoken to him in that manner before, and with such a disrespectful tone at that – _he should’ve known better_ – but the dark-haired Slytherin with the cold eyes hadn’t hesitated and hadn’t apologized.  

Darius hadn’t expected him to – this was _Tom_ – but the sheer absence of remorse was palpable.

And when Abraxas had questioned why Tom wasn’t at the prefects meeting, he’d gotten a funny look on his face and told them he’d forgotten.

_Forgotten._

Tom never forgot things like that. He was meticulous in nature.

Even then, Tom had stood and left the compartment to join said meeting, even though he was undoubtedly late.

_‘What in the name of Merlin?’_ was probably what was running through all their minds as he left.  

“Nott… I absolutely demand that you tell us what happened to Tom!” Abraxas exploded once more, sounding hoarse as he stared Mathias down with a sneer worthy of Tom himself. The Malfoy seemed desperate for answers.

_‘Didn’t like his punishment, did he?’_ Darius thought, satisfied to see the blond so affected by this. One should think he blamed the Nott for it, judging from the spiteful look on his face.

Mathias slowly uncurled from his earlier tenseness and gripped his knees. “I’m not sure what to tell you, Malfoy…” he trailed off. The Nott was his dorm mate, but he wasn’t a part of their little group, so handling Abraxas was probably new territory for him.

Alphard placed a hand on Mathias’ shoulder and smiled predatorily. “How ‘bout at the beginning, hm? Don’t leave anything out.” It sounded like a threat and Mathias evidently caught it. Mathias apparently recovered his courage and started talking.

“My brother and I were on our way to meet our cousin in Diagon Alley… We met Tom in the Leaky Cauldron on the way there…”

Abraxas was impatient. “What was he doing there?”

Mathias looked unsure.

“Don’t shut your trap now, Nott, we’re curious,” Mia stated, staring the new addition to the group down imperiously.

“He was… smiling.”

“He was smiling?” Darius repeated, perplexed. “What for?”

“I really have no idea. He was eating breakfast, reading the news... having a cuppa – smiling. He looked content,” Mathias remembered, looking confused as well by his own memory.

“Right, so Tom was _smiling_. What happened next?” Mia encouraged.

“Then I asked him what he was doing there…” he stopped, and Abraxas raised an eyebrow.

“What? Go on, Nott,” he demanded.

“I asked him why he wasn’t at the orphanage…”

“…Are you an idiot? You don’t ask Tom Riddle about the orphanage!” Alphard sounded outraged and amused at the same time.

It was rule number one.

Of course, Mathias wouldn’t know that. He didn’t know Tom as well as they did.

“Nothing happened! He just told me that… he’d left.”

“He… left? The orphanage?” Abraxas asked. Mathias nodded. “Then where does he live now?”

Mathias looked frustrated with Abraxas’ questions. “How in the world should I know? You know him better than I do! I spent one day with him! _ONE DAY_! Sixteen people died, my brother went crazy, I nearly received a heart attack four times, my father isn’t coming home, and you people are pestering me unrelentingly about information that I simply don’t have!”

The Nott inhaled. “All I know… is that Tom has acted… strange. As said, I don’t know him as you do. I don’t know when it started, or why… he’s been quoting _muggles,_ performing wandless magic just to _fuck_ with me and scares me to even look at,” he finished, his face in his hands. The last part was mumbled, but everyone clearly managed to hear it.

“He scares us too, Nott, have no doubt about that,” Alphard admitted shamelessly.

“Speak for yourself, Black,” the Malfoy clearly _lied._

Darius rolled his eyes at the display and rejoined the conversation.

“Well, if Tom’s been reading muggle books this whole time, I’m not surprised he’s able to quote them,” he says. “Tom has a phenomenal memory. My question, however, is… didn’t Tom explicitly say, as late as May, that he detested muggles, muggleborns and everything they stood for?”

“I remember that,” Mia voiced.

“Then why the sudden change of heart?”

“Maybe he just changed his mind?” Mathias theorized, helpfully.

“…What could possibly make him change his mind about muggles? We don’t like muggles and have never even met one. He grew up with them and still didn’t like them,” Darius said, crossing his arms.

No one had an answer for him.

Darius somehow knew this was only to be the beginning of a year full of changes.

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Tom had attended the prefect meeting, but he’d been late.

While he’d gotten reprimanded for being fifteen minutes late, the meeting itself was more an introductory meeting for the new prefects and a handout of patrol schedules, which meant his tardiness had been overlooked easily enough.

That had been alright, if Tom hadn’t also _left_ early.

That year’s head boy and girl, a Hufflepuff and a Gryffindor respectively, had made underhanded remarks in Tom’s direction the whole meeting, prompting him to leave the compartment with his schedule ahead of time.

“Where do you think you’re going, cheater?” Tiffany Crawley had questioned, insulted. “The meeting isn’t over.”

Tom, with his hand already on the handle, responded, “I’m well aware,” before opening the door and leaving. One lapse in control was enough for one train ride,

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He’d returned to his own compartment, where Abraxas could be heard chatting away from outside the door.

Since the glass on the door was near-transparent, Tom didn’t linger to listen and entered. The Malfoy had moved into his spot at the window, but at seeing Tom, he swiftly stood and retook his old seat, leaving the spot open. Tom merely raised an eyebrow the childishness and sat down.

Alphard was doing whatever homework he had left, Euphemia was helping him, Mathias was slowly curling in on himself at the window again and Darius was reading _Tom’s_ book.

“I told him not to take it, but he didn’t listen to me,” Abraxas said loftily, throwing Darius under the bus, so to speak. The tan boy with the dark brown hair and brown eyes kept reading, ignoring the Malfoy’s accusation.

“Is that so,” Tom said disinterestedly. The Malfoy, confused, pointed at the book as if to reiterate his point.

“Use your words, Abraxas,” Tom reprimanded.

“He’s reading your book,” he repeated, stupidly. 

He looked to Darius. “I don’t mind that he’s reading my book. Don’t disturb him,” he ordered. The blond looked mutinous.

Tom knew he was going to have his hands full of indignant teenager attitude, but he hadn’t expected it to be quite so soon.

He retook one of Abraxas’ newspapers and spent the next hour perusing the articles, discussing Alphard’s potions homework and staring out the window.

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Eventually, they all donned their green and silver Hogwarts robes. Soon thereafter, Mathias mentioned that he should look for his _friends_. Abraxas made a rude comment at him, Alphard provided him with an uncouth gesture and Euphemia ignored him, instead focusing her attention at the book in Darius’ hand.

Mathias made awkward farewell with Tom, to which he simply nodded at the boy and watched him leave the compartment.

He then crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat, regarding Darius.

“You seem engrossed,” Tom said to Darius, who finally looked up. The Carrow had gotten five chapters into the book and had only stopped reading to use the loo once. 

“It’s so different from what I’m used to reading…” Darius spoke quietly, glancing at the words once more. “There’s so many concepts I’ve never heard of before… Names and places, metaphors and idioms…” he paused to look at Abraxas with a mischievous smile.

“There’s a ton of dialogue in this book – it’s rather like overhearing a conversation between muggles. It’s actually rather fascinating,” Darius commented, chancing a look at Tom.  

“Turning into a muggle lover, are you Darius?” Abraxas grumbled irritably, but his tone was measured.

“Oh, you never know,” Darius answered, amused. Euphemia laughed a silly quiet laugh and smiled at Darius, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Will you be finishing this muggle book? I’ve only read a couple of pages, but it doesn’t seem entirely devoid of substance,” she commented. 

Darius hummed thoughtfully, “I might, if I may,” he said, and rested his eyes on Tom again. The wizard in question smiled calmly at him, resulting in several strange expressions being subtly thrown his way, before replying.

“You may,” he allowed. “If you want, I can spell you a copy of your own.” Being a muggle book, this was technically legal. There were, however, laws in place to prevent opportunistic wizards and witches from exploiting the lack of copyright charms, but a single copy of items here and there wasn’t considered an issue by either ministry.

Darius considered his offer. “I think I would like that, thank you,” he accepted, and handed Tom his book back.

Abraxas did not look happy.

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Arriving at Hogsmeade, Tom and his companions left their trunks in their compartment and selected a carriage. They had managed to avoid any direct confrontations with other students, though Tiffany Crawley had been seen staring at him scornfully nonetheless – a fact that presented no interest to him.

As the carriage approached the castle, Tom was left momentarily speechless.  

Being insane had evidently dulled his memories of his first home. It was even more magnificent than he thought he remembered.

It felt like he’d been there only a couple of weeks ago, but –

He’d destroyed it.

Towers had crumpled, walls had fallen, lights had been extinguished. Students had died in vain.

He’d died, like a fool. It was decidedly shameful.

And now, he was back and even more mesmerized by the structure by the lake. Illuminated by the moon and thousands of torches, Hogwarts stood grand and immovable, imposing and inviting simultaneously. Its thousand-year-old walls held countless of secrets, mysteries, riddles – and one very old Basilisk.

Tom knew most of the castle’s larger secrets – he _believed_ – but there were innumerable more nooks and crannies he’d never explored. A thought which made him unbelievably _excited_ to be back. He had areas in the Room of Requirement’s hidden room he hadn’t touched yet, dungeons that had been abandoned for centuries and locked-off towers he very much desired access to.

The carriage stopped by the gate and Tom almost couldn’t comprehend how pleased he was to be back. He wouldn’t let anything ruin this experience for him.

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As soon as he exited the carriage, the jeers started up again. The Slytherins were composed, making no noise or quarrels with him – though he was sure they sorely wanted to – but select students from the other houses didn’t seem to hold themselves back.

Some of them were angry, some of them fascinated, some of them lovestruck – most were confused. The muggleborns especially. Out of the approximately six hundred students, only about one hundred were muggleborns, three hundred were halfbloods with different variations of purity and the remaining two hundred were pureblooded.

Since the muggleborns lived primarily in the muggle world during the summer, Tom supposed they wouldn’t know why everyone was suddenly interested in that one Slytherin – that being him.

Tom never associated himself with any muggleborns during his time at Hogwarts, so while he remembered some of their faces, he didn’t know how much they knew about him, or what they thought of him.

It would be interesting to find out, to say the least.

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The Great Hall was awash with light, the fake night’s sky in the ceiling only adding to the brilliance of the room. The four long tables were bare, but the banners on the walls by the entrance signified which house they belonged to, clearly denoting every student’s place in the hall.

First came the Slytherin table, with its green and silver banner, adorned with a twisted silver snake poised for attack. Next, came Ravenclaw – the bronze and blue banner proudly displaying an eagle taking flight. The Hufflepuff table followed, the black and yellow banner’s badger surveying its surroundings. Lastly, there was Gryffindor, the proud lion of the brave posturing on its gold and red background, flaunting its worth.

The houses of Hogwarts were of paramount importance to the wizards and witches of the British Isles, so much so that some businesses exclusively chose to hire Ravenclaws, purely based on their perceived superior intellect.

Others, chose to only accept hardworking Hufflepuffs at their establishments, because it was said you could trust them to get the job done with a smile and maximum effort.

Slytherins were often put in positions of management because their ambition wouldn’t allow for failure to hinder their progress.

Gryffindors – they were said to be the brave, chance-taking visionaries. If you gave a Gryffindor a job, you could be certain they would give it a go – damn the consequences. A Gryffindor was brave and noble when their deeds succeeded, and they were reckless and foolish when they failed.

Such were the stereotypes of Hogwarts affecting their society. Not to say that the houses were incorrect, but Tom believed that the imposed expectations of their character traits, as demanded of their houses for 7 years, played a large role in accentuating said traits to far greater extents, than what would’ve been the case, had no houses separated the children at the age of eleven.

Tom was, however, a horrible example of his own hypothesis.

While most children came in as clean slates, Tom was already marked by his experiences prior to arriving at Hogwarts. His character had fortunately already been the consummate Slytherin, which helped him immensely settling in. If he’d been any weaker, less ambitious or adaptable, there was no telling what would’ve happened.

But to be honest – it couldn’t in any way have been worse than what did, in fact, happen.

Tom broke out of his thoughts as he approached the Slytherin table. He remembered that he used to sit at the middle of the table with his back to the wall, granting him the ability to survey the entirety of the Great Hall – so that is where he went. He felt Alphard, Abraxas and Euphemia following him a couple of steps behind him, ‘shielding’ him from the hostility of the children around him.

The sentiment was appreciated, but Tom thought the whole affair was silly and unnecessary.

He spotted Mathias moving to his right.

“Mathias,” Tom spoke, catching said wizard’s attention. It was clear to Tom’s eyes, and any Slytherin worth their salt, that the Nott had suppressed a flinch, but the wizard stopped nonetheless and politely answered.

“Yes?” he asked in a respectfully questioning tone, face unreadable _. ‘Good.’_

Tom moved to sit and gestured to his friends with a pleasant smile. “Please, sit with us – I insist.”

Mathias, as well as several other Slytherins looked momentarily stumped, but the surprise barely flickered across their faces before it was gone once more. Unbecoming displays of emotion were frowned upon, after all. _‘Ridiculous, truly,’_ Tom thought, as Mathias invisibly struggled with the request.

Abraxas, who was sat to his right, gestured nicely to the spot opposite him and then Mathias really had no choice any longer. 

The Nott held his head high as he moved away from his small group of friends to sit with Slughorn’s group.

He sat, and Tom felt like grinning. He’d missed Mathias Nott’s potential last time, but this time, he’d hold onto it.

He didn’t care how afraid he was – Mathias would have to learn to deal with his attention.

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Abraxas didn’t know what to think.

He’d never been in this kind of situation before. Things weren’t supposed to _change._

Abraxas didn’t like unexpected changes. Usually, he could threaten his way out of it, pay if absolutely necessary, but that was simply not feasible in this case.

The Malfoy heir narrowed his eyes minutely at the Nott in their midst, making sure his disapproval was felt by the other boy. It took a while, because Nott refused to look in his and Tom’s direction.

Mathias Nott was terrified of Tom. It was clear for anyone to see.

Abraxas couldn’t understand why Tom would accept such a shivering little branch-member Nott into their circle, and the concept absolutely infuriated him.

As a Malfoy, he was expected to surround himself with the best. While the Nott family was illustrious, Mathias Nott and his brother weren’t set to inherit _anything._

Pureblood tradition dictated that the Nott lordship would go to one of their female cousins, after which one of _their_ children would inherit the Nott name, in place of their father’s name, as was customary. One heir for the mother’s family, one heir for the father’s family. Any others would be decided upon between them, but two heirs were a minimum.

The mother would change her name but remain lady of her house. She’d be unable to hold a seat at the Wizengamot, due to conflicting interests, but she’d hold her position in her family, until she passed it on. Often, an heiress was passed over by her younger brothers – for the practicality of it all – but it wasn’t unheard of to hear of siblings with different surnames, because of marriages between two family heirs.

In other cases, an heiress might decide not to marry, and instead rely on her siblings to provide an heir in her stead.

Their traditions were flexible, yet unbreakable. This practice was centuries old, and often a point of conflict between the purebloods and the _mudbloods_ , who simply didn’t understand the practice.

Looking at Mathias once more, Abraxas supposed it could’ve been worse.

With Tom’s _apparent_ newfound interest in showcasing his distasteful background, there were worse choices to be made. Abraxas wasn’t happy, at all, and his throat still hurt after –

_‘I’m not going to think about it,_ ’ he blanked, looking briefly to the black-haired teen beside him.

Abraxas would get his answers somehow. He just needed to figure out how to make Tom Riddle stop evading his questions.

He sighed slightly, as he observed the sorting ceremony take place.

_‘An exercise in futility, no doubt,’_ he thought miserably.

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_‘Well, if this isn’t an interesting development,’_ Euphemia Rosier thought as she sat primly in her seat, ignoring the whispers going on behind her.

It appeared that their _newly_ infamous leader was having an on-and-off, ongoing staring-contest with the deputy headmaster.

If the concept itself wasn’t ludicrous enough, Tom seemed to be having _fun._

Professor Dumbledore was overseeing the proceedings of the sorting, but kept getting distracted by _Tom_ , resulting in too long pauses and confused eleven-year-olds nearly walking to the wrong tables.

Abraxas and Alphard hadn’t noticed yet, but they were bound to with the way Tom’s lips were threatening to smile every time Dumbledore failed to deliver his performance correctly.

Euphemia herself was hard pressed not to laugh – as was the rest of the Slytherin table.

They really couldn’t though, she knew. It would break the illusion.

The sorting finished – with eight new Slytherins at their table – and headmaster Dippet stepped up to the front of the room, clapping Professor Dumbledore on his shoulder comfortingly.

“Yes, well done, Albus – now, I believe you could use a glass of pumpkin juice, yes?” the headmaster urged with care. Professor Dumbledore simply smiled kindly at the headmaster and nodded, after which he moved to his seat.

The professor then made direct eye-contact with Tom once again, sharp and narrowed.

The expression Tom received was by no means the same expression he sent back, which was one of immense enjoyment – or what she supposed immense enjoyment would look like in Tom’s case, since she’d never seen this expression on his face before today.

_‘What is even going on here?’_ Euphemia thought in confusion.

Now, it was clear everyone near their group at the Slytherin table had noticed. They were being appropriately subtle with their observations, but their eyes still kept switching between the contestants of this silent battle of wills they were witnessing – a battle she was pretty sure Tom was winning, judging by professor Dumbledore’s mildly sour expression.

If Euphemia didn’t know better, she’d say the elderly man looked _worried._

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“– and now, let’s eat!” the headmaster finished jovially.

“Finally,” Alphard muttered. He’d been sitting still as a statue for forty-five minutes and was developing a kink in his neck, and a hunger than rivalled Abraxas’ need for attention.

“Hutty, Dingler, Wacker and Yush!” the headmaster babbled out the names of this year’s serving house elves. The food spread out from one end of the table to the other, prompting awed sighs and eruptions of excitement from the new firsties.

The new mudbloods seemed especially excited this year – a couple of Gryffindors. They were distinguishable by their exclamations of disbelief. Alphard rather looked forward to beating in the nastier side of magic into their little magic-is-glitter-and-unicorns philosophy.

It was always the best part of a new school year – disenchanting the mudbloods.

Someone had to do it, and so Alphard felt it had been his magic-bestowed duty to carry that responsibility. Cursing little firsties to show them their place.

He was doing them a favour – honestly.

Alphard spotted the glazed potatoes off to the side and served himself a generous amount. Tom apparently also desired said potatoes, as he motioned for the spoon thereafter.

Tom was acting incredibly nonchalant for someone who’d been goading the deputy headmaster for close to an hour – spooning potatoes onto his plate like nothing had changed.

Evidently, stuff had changed.

“Riddle,” a seventh-year Slytherin spoke across the table from them. The student in question subtly applied a localized silencing-ward, and while effective, only covered a diameter of four meters. As the Slytherins around them pretended nothing had changed, she spoke again.

“Riddle, I demand –“

“No, you _fucking_ don’t,” Abraxas cut in forcefully, rudely interrupting the girl before she could finish an unbelievably stupid sentence. The short-haired seventh-year looked incredibly insulted, but since this was Abraxas, she couldn’t do anything. She pressed her lips together and composed herself once more. The students within the perimeter of the ward resumed eating, but the shock of the Malfoy’s hilariously weighty interruption still carried on in their stares.

“I think –“ another girl said, calmly, in the pause that followed, “ – that what Antonia meant to say was – Would you please enlighten us all with the tale of your no-doubt eventful summer, Riddle”

She looked to Tom with the expression one would provide a foreign dignitary. The entire scene was amazing, because Tom Riddle seemed to accept the approach as perfectly adequate.

The dark-haired wizard that Alphard called leader ate another piece of turkey, took a sip of his water and reached for the plate of asparagus – _then_ , chose to answer the question.

“Suppose I did,” Tom started, exhibiting a new interest for dramatics that Alphard wholly supported. “ – what do I get out of it?”

“What do you mean?” Letitia Flint, the second girl from their year, hesitated.

“That’s not the question,” Tom remarked as he continued eating, displaying a serenity that no one at the table had ever seen in him before. “The question is – what do I want in exchange?” Tom spoke the last part after swallowing and then motioned for a piece of the chicken. Mathias Nott, who sat the closest, hurried to hand Tom the meat.

“Thank you,” Tom said, and the table went quiet again – Alphard included.

It was a rare thing to hear Tom Riddle thank anyone sincerely. All that just for a piece of chicken. What did Nott do to deserve such acknowledgment? The situation was ridiculous. The whole day so far had been ridiculous.

Alphard loved it.

“Why would I do that?” Letitia spoke snootily, looking Tom in the eyes with what could be mistaken as determination.

Tom gave the girl a look of annoyance mixed with disappointment.

“As a Slytherin, I’d hoped you’d understand the concept of quid pro quo. Equivalent exchange, so to speak. If you want information, you should be ready to provide intel of equal value,” Tom lectured, and several Slytherins around them nodded in agreement, though no doubt disappointed.

“As you say, Riddle.” The Flint then put away her utensils and took a deep breath. 

“My summer began in my family’s manor. My brother had recently been promoted to a higher position within the Department of Justice, so we celebrated his success with a –“

“While no doubt _fascinating_ , this information holds no value to me,” Tom interrupted. He then looked to the approximately twenty Slytherins around him, four – five – of whom consisted of their group.  “How many of you would like to know?” Tom inquired.

_“I do_ ,” Alphard cut in immediately, grinning widely. “You have no idea how much I want to know.”

“You know that I want to know,” Abraxas concurred unnecessarily, and Darius and Euphemia nodded, agreeing with the sentiment.

Several others added in their assents, shrewdly pleading with the possible _mudblood_ Slytherin they called their leader to educate them on his summer activities. Said Slytherin then nodded.

“Very well. Since so many of you desire this information, we’ll make a bargain,” he said, and everyone leaned in closer, the anticipation at the table rising. The surrounding people outside the ward had caught on that something was happening but were helpless to intervene.

“You all know about the riot that took place at the Unreliable Stadium,” Tom stated and continued, “I will answer exactly three questions, that you decide amongst yourselves, if you perform a task for me.”

“All of us?” Euphemia asked, surprised. She probably hadn’t expected to be lumped together with every other Slytherin.

“Yes, all of you,” Tom _repeated_ , eyes flat. Euphemia lowered her head apologetically and Tom went on.

“You will keep track of anyone plotting attempts of vengeance against me,” he said, and Alphard exposed his teeth in an angry snarl.

“Is someone planning to attack you? I’ll handle it,” he said with deadly resolve. Alphard might not know who Tom Riddle really was, but he’d be damned if anyone thought they could waltz in and attack a member of their group.

“I don’t know,” Tom admitted, looking at Alphard with clear approval – a look he’d never thought he needed.

“To summarize… we can ask you any three questions – which you will answer – and in exchange we’ll thwart the vigilantes?” Letitia concluded, but Tom shook his head.

“No thwarting necessary.”

“Then what do you want, Riddle? I can reveal that I already know of several parties interested in the discontinuation of your health. How do you intend to take care of this yourself?” Letitia doubted Tom, who folded his fingers and placed them in front of his mouth, looking at the Slytherins around him.

“No need to worry about my health. I’ll handle the miscreants myself, whereever they may be. All I need you to do is tell me who they are and the background for their quarrel with me. I’ll take it from there – and you’ll have your answers. It should be a simple matter.”

The Slytherins around Tom looked briefly to each other, after which Antonia dropped the ward. Alphard noticed that Mathias looked oddly distressed, having not made a single comment during the whole discussion.

“You have yourself a deal, Riddle,” Letitia stated, but still quiet enough to not draw attention from any nearby parties.

Alphard didn’t doubt for a second that Tom could handle his conspirators himself. Abraxas’ uproarious punishment was evidence enough for him.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter – Dumbledore!


	9. Nemesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all the feedback I've been getting!

All the way through the meal and into dessert, Tom had to deal with the noise. He didn’t mind the attention, but the noise… it was grating on his nerves.

He needed peace.

Dumbledore was still trying to maintain eye contact with him, but every time the man made an attempt at his mind, Tom broke off their connection and switched his attention elsewhere – only to return his eyes to enjoy Dumbledore’s momentary frustration.

He knew he’d answer to this later, but at the moment, Tom felt vindicated.

The empty platters and half-filled bowls promptly disappeared and headmaster Dippet returned to the stand before them.

“That was delicious!” the asinine old coot proclaimed with glee. “I’m sure you’re all tired, however. You may all retire to your dormitories.” He then spread his arms wide. “Prefects!” the headmaster shouted, and every prefect, Tom included, stood up.

“The prefects will escort the new students to their respective common rooms. All new students, please follow your prefects, as they will introduce you to your houses. Tomorrow morning, your heads of houses will welcome you personally. That is all – goodnight!”

“Are you coming, Tom?” Euphemia asked as they stood.

“No, I’ll stay and help with the new students,” he said, surprising them once more. Mathias dared to walk closer to Tom, so he could speak his mind quietly.

“Tom, if this has anything to do with what I said at the stadium, you have to know I didn’t mean –“

Tom placed a hand on Mathias’ shoulder and stopped him.

“You needn’t worry, Mathias. You were in a sense correct. I merely intend to change my level of involvement this year,” Tom told them, and Darius raised an eyebrow.

“I thought you told me once you refused to concern yourself with children?”

Tom hummed thoughtfully, glancing at the now fast approaching deputy headmaster.

He was running out of time.

“Well,” he started, as he began to walk towards the other prefects at the entrance. The others followed him leisurely, fighting to seem unconcerned by his uncharacteristic behaviour.

“I’ve never had the best relationship with children,” he admitted. “I often find myself unable to relate to them, but – “ he paused, as he observed Dumbledore draw ever closer. “Currently, I’d rather mind firsties than be on the other end of Albus Dumbledore’s wand, so you’ll have to excuse me.”

With that, he raised a hand at the prefects and the eight new firsties and pointed _directly_ towards the hallway. He moved past them with hurried steps, the other prefects frenziedly attempting and failing to herd the firsties out of the room in an orderly manner, causing several students from other houses to stare in bewilderment at the unusually disorganized Slytherins.

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“Where is he going?” professor Dumbledore asked, sounding worried.

Darius stared at the deputy headmaster with his arms folded behind his back. “He’s escorting the first-year students to our common room, as is his duty as a prefect,” he said, and the others nodded their heads. They were endlessly confused about Tom’s – escape? – but had to appear unified in public.

Tom was not making this easy.

“I see,” professor Dumbledore spoke gravelly, as if the biggest mistake had just been committed and the Slytherins were somehow responsible for its execution. The old man looked at them disappointedly, before leaving the Great Hall, his long periwinkle blue robes swishing everywhere in his hurry.

“Is Tom running from Dumbledore?” Euphemia whispered. Abraxas glared at their transfiguration teacher before he disappeared down the hallway.

“I think Dumbledore gambled on the game and Tom won his money,” he concluded, and Darius’ eyes widened. “That’s highly inappropriate – What do you think Tom will do if Dumbledore confronts him about it?”

Mathias looked uncomfortable. “I’ve heard what happened to one of the people who tried to take Tom’s contract…” he trailed off, and Abraxas zeroed in on him.

“Did he do what he did to me?” he demanded. They were moving down a staircase, keeping their voices down.

“No. I’m not sure if it’s true, but if it is…” the Nott shivered, and Darius _actually_ felt sorry for him.

“We left before he did. He was being escorted by the Aurors, so we didn’t see anything, but the next day we were fire-called by the Auror department, since they desired our statements about the incident,” Mathias continued, his brows furrowed in thought.  

“At the office, we overheard an Auror comment that a man who Tom had _thrown into a wall_ was still unconscious, and that they were postponing his trial due to his condition.”

“Tom did what!?” Alphard _shouted._ Euphemia shushed him half-heartedly. The Slytherins who were moving around them in the dungeons were undoubtedly listening.

“This is completely unprecedented,” Abraxas muttered, unsettled.   

The Slytherins stayed quiet for the rest of their way to the common room. They were taking a complicated, albeit faster route to the dungeon, so expected to arrive there before the prefects.

Abraxas looked deep in thought, and Darius had to admit he was worried, now.

He’d liked it when he saw the high and mighty Malfoy get torn down a peg or two – but if Tom was indeed capable of doing worse – would he still enjoy the sight?

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As soon as they entered the dungeons through the main staircase, Tom slowed down. The two seventh-year prefects, Dalia Jones and Gregorian Goyle caught up to him.

“Why in the name of Merlin are we in such a hurry, Riddle?” Dalia questioned him.

Tom glanced at her. “I’m procrastinating,” he announced, and Gregorian raised a thick eyebrow.

“That’s new,” he commented, before looking back to make sure the firsties were following suit.

“Don’t touch anything. Don’t say anything important. Don’t step on anything we haven’t stepped on. Don’t listen to things that speak that you can’t see. Don’t pick up anything shiny. Do not, under any circumstances, go anywhere alone. Don’t trust _anything_ ,” Gregorian told them seriously. The eight fresh Slytherins looked terrified.

Tom inclined his head at the Goyle. “Little much, no?”

“This is the standard introduction for firsties,” he proclaimed, sending the young students another warning glare. They were walking two and two, close together and looked as if the walls of the dungeons could swallow them at any moment.

Eventually, they reached a section of wall that Tom recognized very well.

The rough stone walls around them were damp with the water from the lake above them, and the dark foreboding hallway they stood in was cold and uninviting, only a few torches lighting this outwardly unimportant wall. Looking closely, one could spot a tiny carving of a snake on a stone close to the ceiling. There were no paintings around anymore, as the humidity would’ve ruined them beyond repair, magic or no.

This was the entrance to the Slytherin common room – as far removed from the light as possible.

“Is this it?” a girl with short, black hair questioned sceptically. Dalia moved to stand before the wall and spoke the password. “Flitterbloom.”

Quiet little gasps could be heard as the wall slowly peeled away, stone by stone, creating a beautiful arch with large double doors. The doors were intricately carved with thousands of small serpents, interwoven and speckled with green glass, creating a dazzling effect with the light from the other side, shining a myriad of green hues into the hallway.

Gregorian opened the doors, and Dalia shooed the firsties in.

“You will remember where the entrance is. You will remember the password. You will not share the location _or_ the password with anyone outside the house. The password changes every fortnight. It will be posted on _that_ board,” Gregorian said as he pointed to said board besides the entrance. “If you forget the password, you will be penalized,” he promised as he glared at the new students once again. They looked like the last thing they wanted to do was to forget the password.

“Thank you for that helpful summarization, Goyle,” Dalia remarked apathetically.

Goyle provided a curt nod.

The eight young students were utterly mesmerized by the room, as Tom had been when he’d seen it for the first time.

Fires illuminated the space.

The grey stone walls were adorned with portraits of prominent Slytherin students from centuries back, acting as a constant goal of greatness to strive for – their presence providing ideas and motivation to the snakes occupying the den on a daily basis. The back of the room held a couple of large windows, opening up a perfect view of the lake from within – if the dark lake hadn’t obscured itself so efficiently, that is. Only once in a while was the giant octopus visible, and few could brag to have stared a mer-person in the eyes.

Several walls had built-in bookshelves, and a large fireplace occupied a sunken lounge area in the upper right corner of the room, with couches, armchairs and low tables in the customary green, silver or dark wood dotting the space.

Two staircases, that went further down, were positioned on each side of the common room, separating the boys’ and girls’ dormitories.

Dalia looked to the students once again. There were four boys and four girls this year.

“Your dormitories are to the left,” Dalia announced, pointing the four small boys to the left-side staircase. “You cannot enter the girls’ dormitory and the girls cannot enter yours. Spells are in place to prevent this,” she told them, and the children nodded their understanding.

A couple of them then looked to Tom with questioning looks. Dalia noticed, and swept a hand unnecessarily in Tom’s direction.

“This is Tom Riddle. He’s also a prefect, as can be seen by the badge he’s wearing, like my own,” she pointed out helpfully. Tom hadn’t planned to say anything, but one of the boys chose to speak up, ruining his non-participation.  

“Never heard of the Riddle family,” the little boy disclosed, breaking the rules immediately. As the common room was currently filled to the brim with other Slytherins, everyone had heard the question and was now actively paying attention to the scene.

“And you won’t _, fortunately,”_ Tom himself answered, speaking to the children for the first time. The common room was silent around them, but the little Slytherins didn’t seem to notice.

“Why not? Aren’t you a pureblood?” the boy questioned curiously. “My parents told me only purebloods got accepted into Slytherin.”

Tom narrowed his eyes at him.

“There’s a lot about Slytherin house that you don’t know, little boy,” Tom stated ominously. Everyone was observing the spectacle of Tom Riddle conversing with a first year, waiting for the proverbial hammer to fall – or for Tom to finally divulge some information.

Neither thing happened. Tom had other intentions.   

Extraordinarily, he moved to stand before the children and spread his arms wide, gesturing to the grandeur of the common room, and everyone in it. Once he was certain he had everyone’s complete attention, he started speaking.

“Salazar Slytherin founded this house for the ambitious and the cunning, for the ones determined to succeed and the ones unwilling to accept inferiority,” he began, capturing the interest of the smallest Slytherins in the room.

“Slytherins value self-preservation,” he continued, “that means that every Slytherin is their own first priority. We weigh our options before acting – we are not Gryffindors, who charge with abandon, but neither are we Ravenclaws, who’d rather use their wisdom to employ others, than to do the dirty work themselves. We are not lazy, but neither are we like the Hufflepuffs, who put emphasis on their dedication. We value self-reliance – accepted as a _group._ We provide a unified front for the other houses, who see us as shrewd and unreliable – but as a Slytherin, you cannot let other’s words damage your credibility. You must remain steady, strong – a leader.”

Everyone watched as Tom lectured the children, who stood transfixed and proud, staring back at him.

“In Slytherin, what matters is _power,”_ he emphasized. “In any manner it is found. If you are powerful, then you can be anything – _do_ anything. You must never let anyone dictate your place in life, because then you’ve already lost.”

Tom purposely placed his hands in his trouser pockets in a manner that went directly against pureblood customs, a fact everyone noticed and paid attention to.

“Always pay attention to the other players in the game,” he then said, confusing everyone. Tom swept his eyes across the room, locking eyes with no one in particular.

“If you and your opponent aren’t playing by the same rules, then your tactics are _worthless,”_ Tom hissed menacingly, his fierce eyes returning to the boy who’d spoken. The child’s eyes were wide, but he stood still, not moving a muscle.

Tom narrowed his eyes at the boy. Everyone waited.

After an appropriately prolonged amount of tension, the dark wizard folded his arms and relaxed his stance considerably.  

“Now. What have we learned?” he inquired evenly – also looking to the remaining seven, mildly petrified children. At the attention, the children thought for a couple of tense seconds, before answering loudly.

“Think before acting.”

“Always seek to succeed.”

“Be self-reliant.”

“Lead – don’t follow.”

“Always appear unified.”

 “Win no matter how.”

“Become your own first priority.”

“…Only power determines your place in life,” the boy finished, and Tom nodded, satisfied.

“Good,” he approved. “Never forget that.” A glance at the common room revealed absolute flabbergasted expressions, completely unbecoming of the otherwise composed Slytherins. At least it seemed like the children understood.

He looked to Dalia and Gregorian, who were staring at him as if they’d never laid eyes on him before. He snapped his finger in Dalia’s face rudely, breaking her out of her funk.

“I believe that was all,” he said, and Dalia nodded slowly.

Dalia then told the new little Slytherins to go to their dormitories, but they hesitated in following her command. Instead, they moved back to Tom and introduced themselves one by one, before leaving for bed.

The display was puzzling to the others, but Tom took it for what it was.

Respect for his position.

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Pericles went to work feeling disgruntled.

He didn’t know if any of his co-workers had noticed his mood, because his head was predominantly elsewhere – occupied by his recent obsession.

It’d been a couple of days since his father had absconded with his research, and he hadn’t heard from him since. He didn’t know what the man intended to do with it.

It was driving him up the wall, just thinking about it.

Pericles had spent a whole night looking through the archives, including archives he wasn’t strictly permitted to enter so he could draw the connections he had. It was clear to Pericles that the European Auror departments were selectively publishing information about Grindelwald’s movements, leaving what they deemed uncorrelated incidents in the dark.

As a Ravenclaw, Pericles was immensely proud of the work he’d put into his theory, so the notion of discontinuing his research clawed at him on a physical level. He hadn’t heard further from his father, and that was a clear indication that he was bidden to stay off the subject.

Pericles was disinclined to do so. He felt he was onto something significant.

Which was why Pericles felt angry, disappointed – vindictive? He wasn’t sure, but he knew he had no intention of following his father’s orders.

He wanted to know where his leads took him.

However, if he continued in the exact same vein he’d started in, the threads he’d drawn for his father to steal, he’d likely find himself busted by his father and associates – and punished for his disobedience.

Pericles knew that was an extremely likely occurrence, which was why he wouldn’t do that.

He would instead pursue another lead he’d found, that he’d thought too incomplete to present – and significantly more controversial.

Amongst the papers and reports he’d sorted through at the department, a certain name popped up irregularly, that wouldn’t normally raise any eyebrows. But for Pericles, it most certainly did – and with good reason.

He’d found a possible, albeit thin, correlation between the strange muggle-related attacks committed by Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore’s presence at select few incidents.

It was truly a tentative lead, but Pericles felt he was looking in the right direction. It was common knowledge that Albus Dumbledore had a past with Gellert Grindelwald, what kind was up to debate, but widely acknowledged nonetheless.

Dumbledore was said to be the only known wizard to be on equal footing with the Dark Lord, so his intervention was highly requested, but rarely provided. It drove the other European ministries insane, and now Pericles completely agreed with the sentiment.

If Gellert Grindelwald was indeed keeping Adolf Hitler alive, as Tom had hypothesized, then Albus Dumbledore was criminally negligent in his continued existence and indirectly implicated in the millions of deaths occurring every year.

Dumbledore only chose to participate in an extremely limited number of raids and attacks authorized by Grindelwald, and Pericles was curious as to why that was.

Far from every single attack Grindelwald committed was related to pre-muggle-demolition, but _every single one_ of Dumbledore’s appearances were.

Pericles had a theory, but he couldn’t bring it to his father. He didn’t want to, and he didn’t feel secure in its credibility yet.

He did, however, have someone who was likely willing to believe him.  

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Friday morning found Tom sitting at the Slytherin table, reading the paper – ignoring absolutely everything going on around him.

It was still rather early, so few students had found their way there. It was so early in fact, that Tom was reading last day’s edition, since the newspapers weren’t scheduled to arrive for another hour.

Abraxas hadn’t brought the latest edition of the Daily Prophet yesterday, so Tom was curious about the current situation regarding what had happened at the stadium. It seemed that sixteen people had died – increased after an elderly gentleman died of his wounds the day after.

Some of the dead were rioters – most had been collateral. Four of them had been children, and a single one of them had been a Hogwarts student from Hufflepuff.

The Daily Prophet described her as “a fourth-year half-blood who had gone by the name of Felicity Goodman,” which was really rather typical of them. It was only after the war that the half-blood and muggleborn populations started really speaking up about the discrimination they felt.

Maybe if they’d spoken up sooner, the young Tom Riddle wouldn’t have committed such grave mistakes, trying to delude himself into thinking he was something he wasn’t.

But as the muggles say; no use crying over spilt milk. What was done, was done, and everyone would have to deal with the consequences. Tom included.

He had no doubt he’d face the music soon.

Eventually, the tables started filling up. Some thirty minutes later, Tom was brought out of his reading by a light tap on his shoulder.

He saw Euphemia, holding a piece of parchment out for him.

“Thank you,” he said, accepting what looked to be his class schedule.

The Dark Lord thought it amusing that a little piece of paper was supposed to dictate his activities for the upcoming four months _. ‘We’ll see,’_ he thought as he perused the subjects.

“…You’re welcome,” she said, resuming her devastation of the fruit bowl. “Tom – can I ask you a question?”

Tom stole an apple from her bowl and proceeded to take a bite, nodding as he did.

“This is not related to the questions you promised to answer later – to which we definitely need to discuss time limits and directives,” she broke in, sending him a look that told him she’d seen through he’s vague proposition the day before as the evasion it had been.

Tom sent her a mischievous grin, “go on, Mia – what do you want to ask me? I’ll let you know if I don’t feel like answering.”

“I somehow highly doubt that,” she mumbled, after which she coughed awkwardly and straightened her back.

“I would like to know – does professor Dumbledore…? I mean – ” Euphemia seemed incapable of phrasing her question correctly. Luckily, Alphard was there to help shatter the hesitancy.

“We would like to know if you won Dumbledore’s money. He seems to have it out for you more than usual,” Alphard told him ruthlessly.

“Unlikely,” Tom answered with certainty. But wouldn’t that have been brilliant?

“Then what was all the hostility yesterday about?” Euphemia asked.

“Honestly? I was having fun,” Tom admitted blatantly. The group stared at him, exchanging glances. Of course, they wouldn’t understand the appeal.

“Well, Tom, you’re about to have a riot. Dumbledore is coming our way,” Alphard informed him – pun probably intended – prompting him to look to the walk-way between the tables.

And indeed, he was. He was walking quite briskly as well, the not-quite-as-old coot.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” Albus Dumbledore addressed him. He’d hoped that causing his death would’ve spared him of hearing him ever enunciate those words again, but it seemed things rarely went the way he expected them to.

People just didn’t stay dead sometimes– especially him.

“Yes?” he asked politely, fighting to keep a smile on his face.

“We need to have a _discussion_. Would you please follow me to my office?”

“This sounds rather serious, professor Dumbledore – and so soon after arriving. Do you mind if I finish my breakfast before we engage in such important matters?” Tom inquired. Breakfast had barely begun after all, but Dumbledore evidently couldn’t wait. He understood, but others didn’t see the hurry.

“Is there an issue, Albus?” professor Slughorn asked as he walked over, having spotted the situation occurring at the Slytherin table. “Can’t imagine Tom here causing any trouble,” he added with a goofy-looking grin.

_‘The unscrupulous tosser,’_ Tom thought in annoyance.

“Nothing serious, Horace, I assure you. It is just imperative that I speak with Mr Riddle about certain key subjects before the start of classes,” Dumbledore told the other professor in a kind, collected tone.

Tom proceeded to eat, as the men conversed.

Horace Slughorn scratched his chin in contemplation. “I don’t see why it needs to be at this very moment, Albus. Why don’t we have a cuppa, and you explain to me whatever this is about, hm?” the short head of house Slytherin told the head of Gryffindor.

As it seemed Dumbledore was preparing for a comeback, Tom chose to break in.

“Professor Slughorn, it’s quite alright. Though I lament the remains of my breakfast, I see professor Dumbledore has pressing matters,” Tom told the professors, standing up. His friends looked to him questioningly but knew better to interrupt.

“Are you sure, dear boy?”

_‘Good gracious,’_ he thought.

“Yes, have no worry,” Tom assured him. He moved around the table to stand with the men, his height surpassing the potion’s professor’s pudgy form. Slughorn looked hesitant, but Tom knew how to handle the man.

“If you’d like, we can discuss the matter over tea at a later time,” Tom offered, and the old Slytherin brightened significantly. Tom had offered him an opportunity to possibly further his relationship with a current celebrity, a chance the barmy professor couldn’t pass up on. A Slytherin, however much one tended to forget that fact.

“Brilliant, simply brilliant,” the smiling man nodded and shook Tom’s hand. “I’ll contact you,” he told him, before seemingly forgetting about the situation he’d intervened in entirely.

“Well then, professor Dumbledore – shall we be off?” the dark wizard asked his nemesis of sixty years. The currently sixty-two-year-old man narrowed his clear blue eyes at him, before curtly nodding, leading Tom out of the hall.

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The walk to the office was nothing if not tense.

Tom felt Dumbledore’s eyes on him like two knives digging into the back of his head, following his every move – likely afraid he’d make another run for it.

But Tom was done procrastinating. Now, he needed results. The next two years of his life, if he indeed committed to finishing his ‘education’, depended on this meeting. 

As they reached the office, Tom himself grabbed onto the handle and upon feeling the wards, _shattered them_ upon contact. Dumbledore hadn’t placed very elaborate wards to ensure his privacy, but enough to make a dedicated student scratch at their head for a couple of weeks.

Tom simply broke them with brute force – and it certainly didn’t win any points with the professor, judging from his increasingly hostile countenance.

It wasn’t meant to.

Dumbledore entered his office, and Tom shut the door behind him.

A hasty, albeit effective, ward was quickly applied by the outwardly older man, trapping them both in the room – alone. He hadn’t missed it.

Albus Dumbledore’s wand was trained on him when he looked, pointed directly at his heart. The greying man’s light blue eyes were narrow behind his glasses, his significantly shorter beard hiding the frown on his face. Tom’s anticipation was building. He hadn’t seen Dumbledore this affected by his presence in decades.

The dark wizard said nothing, waiting for the other to make the first move. He idly wondered if Dumbledore intended, in the spirit of a true Gryffindor, to attack without question.

He wasn’t that lucky.

“Who are you?” Dumbledore asked lowly, wand-arm stretched and ready to fire at the simplest hint of aggression from Tom.

“You know who,” Tom said and failed to keep the smile off his face – it was cruel. Dumbledore’s brows furrowed in dissatisfaction.

“You are not Tom Riddle,” the professor denied with steady conviction. “I’ve taught the boy for five years. I know his magic,” he elaborated, not moving a muscle as he spoke.

“Of course, you are correct,” Tom agreed, smile gone. “I am not the Tom Riddle you know – but I am him, nonetheless. I’m afraid you will never again see the young man you knew – he is dead,” he promised, face shadowed by the torches.

Dumbledore’s wand didn’t waver, his expression cold.

“What are you doing here? – Did Gellert send you?”

Tom raised an eyebrow, slightly insulted at the insinuation. “Whatever for? I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you, _Albus_. I have nothing to do with Grindelwald.”  

“Don’t lie to me,” Dumbledore ordered, a strong pulse of magic backing his words, frustration seeping into his otherwise composed demeanour.

It seemed his presence was causing Albus Dumbledore some undue stress. How _unfortunate._

“The war between the two of you is none of my concern,” he told him. Tom had yet to draw his own wand, still allowing Dumbledore his blanket of security. “Why would I involve myself with such a petty wizard?”

“You are the same,” Dumbledore reasoned, taking a step to the right, still aiming his wand at Tom. “It stands to reason Gellert would draw benefit from a wizard like himself. I just hadn’t dared imagine he’d let another Dark Lord _possess_ a student to gain access to me.”

“I’m not possessed,” Tom denied, “and don’t compare me to him. We are nothing alike.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Of course, you don’t. You’d be an imbecile otherwise.”

Dumbledore’s mind was brushing his own, but Tom wasn’t letting him see anything.

“Tell me what you are doing here,” the man asked again, clearly not believing a word he was saying. Why he thought repeating the same question would garner better results the second time was beyond his understanding.

“I’m here to finish my education, of course,” Tom tells him conversationally, moving away from the door. Dumbledore’s wand followed him as he went.

“Of course, I finished it years ago, but it hardly counts anymore.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“I’m aware. My apologies,” Tom told him insincerely, studying the bobs and ends around the room – several of which he recognized from the headmaster’s office after he’d taken over the school.

His nonchalance was probably exasperating the older man, so he refocused his attention, spreading his arms unthreateningly. 

“I’ll have you know I have a written permission from the Auror department to practice self-defence in case of an attack from a magically malignant wizard, and _you_ , professor, look very malignant to me at the moment,” Tom grinned, goading the Gryffindor.

 

“Drop the act. You may look like a minor, but you are not. You are _not_ leaving this room,” Dumbledore promised lowly, ready for attack. Tom could feel the magic build in the air between them.  

Tom stared at him, amused at the aggression. “You make for a nice show Dumbledore, but think of the consequences,” he paused, gesturing towards the door.

“How many students must die, so you can prevent me from leaving – or staying, as it were?”

Now Dumbledore looked positively angry. It was a nice look on his old professor, a look he’d failed to inspire in his early years.  

Naturally, taking every single student at Hogwarts hostage was bound to provoke a reaction.

“You are too dangerous,” Dumbledore decided, and launched forward – but not how he expected him to.

Tom’s world suddenly erupted with _pain._

His hands gripped his head as he fought to stay standing.

Dumbledore’s Legilimency attack was countered ruthlessly, Tom’s own magic _stabbing_ frantically at Dumbledore’s mind in turn, causing the other to grunt in unexpected agony.

He needed him _out_.

His adversary fought on despite the pain however, hammering at his defences, intent on gaining access. Had it been almost any other wizard, Tom could’ve defended himself easily, but Albus Dumbledore put up a fight worthy of his reputation.

But so did Tom – and Dumbledore was feeling the aftermath of his assault.

But – unbidden, and despite his best efforts, a memory resurfaced – all the feelings and thoughts associated with the event attached, filling both of their heads with even greater pain – and _fury._

The noise started then – the endless hissing of a million venomous snakes crept into their minds – and an image.  

_“NO!”_ Tom raged, furious, _ripping_ Dumbledore forcefully out of his mind and drawing his yew wand at him. Dumbledore stumbled back several steps, supporting himself at his desk.

With gritted teeth and eyes like two dark abysses, Tom dropped the act and spoke. “Stay out of my mind, _Albus.”_

“What was that?” the older man questioned then, staring at Tom in horror.

Tom didn’t answer, too angry to properly focus his Occlumency.

“It didn’t look human,” he continued, blowing on the hot coals of Tom’s fury.

“It looked like a monster,” he said as he walked closer, wand still ready at his side. Tom kept his wand aimed at the professor, eyes filled with wrath and sorrow.

“Not a step closer, or you’ll feel the monster resurface. I promise you that,” he threatened coldly. “Think of the children,” he mocked angrily.

“You need to be stopped. For the greater good,” the professor said then, straining his wand at him, paraphrasing his old friend Gellert Grindelwald as he always did.

Tom was taking several deep breaths, attempting to recollect himself, but Dumbledore was making it so Merlin-damned difficult. How did he always manage to drive him into such a state?

“I’m not certain the Aurors will feel that way,” Tom told him, a sharp smirk snaking its way across his lips.

“They will understand,” Dumbledore stated, but Tom shook his head.

“How could they? You’ll be murdering a student with no due cause,” Tom said. “You will have no way to justify your actions. I have admitted to nothing – committed no crimes.”

“You are a Dark Lord,” Albus Dumbledore accused him, but his face told the full story. He knew full well Tom spoke the truth.

“Regardless, I cannot let you go – even if I must die in Azkaban for my deeds,” Dumbledore vowed, disregarding his own life and the life of several students in the process.

‘All for the greater good, _indeed.’_

“As you say,” Tom answered, disengaging his wand from its intended target. “But what of dear old _Gellert_ , Albus? With you gone, what then?”

Tom’s expression morphed into one of sadistic glee as Dumbledore suddenly realized the full scope of the situation.

“You cannot have it both ways, Dumbledore. Either you defeat me now and die – or you let me go so you can ensure the downfall of your _friend.”_

Dumbledore looked incomprehensively crushed, his wand hand shaking, eyes filling with justifiable resentment.

“What will it be, Albus Dumbledore?”

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Albus had no words.

The demon who was masquerading as his student was smirking at him – waiting for his move, but Albus wasn’t sure any move would qualify as responsible.

If he attacked, then this Dark Lord would fight him to his last, causing untold damage to the castle and killing his students.

The chances of him even getting that far were slim, however, since Albus would likely be stopped by the other teachers, or the Aurors, once they discovered that Albus was attacking what looked to be a student.

And considering the current situation, his attack would seem rooted in personal agendas, and not in an attempt at saving lives. He’d be accused of premeditated assault, stripped of his positions and sentenced to Azkaban to die like his father.

In addition to that – since the likelihood of him defeating this Dark Lord prior to intervention was so – _unlikely_ – he’d be letting _two_ Dark Lords run amuck without supervision, instead of one.

Albus would rather lose his magic than let that happen. It simply wasn’t up for discussion.

But if he let this one go… wouldn’t the same situation be the case?

Could he even win? Albus didn’t know, and it worried him.

He didn’t know who he was dealing with. _What._

He’d seen something when he’d justly attacked the imposter’s mind. A creature so _foul_ – skin paper thin and eyes a sick, bloody _red._ Sunken in features and a laughing black mouth, emitting shrill noises of heartless amusement as the monster tortured its victim with the Cruciatus Curse mercilessly.

And a noise – unlike any other. It would drive anyone utterly insane.

How could this individual… have memories of being this vile being?

“We need to have a discussion, Albus. I should hope you agree?” the _thing_ said then, clearly taunting him.

_‘Damn him.’_

The one walking in the skin of Tom Riddle then conjured two identical armchairs, offering one to Albus. He eyed the chair sceptically.

Sitting down felt like defeat.

Albus let out a heavy, tired sigh, before sitting down, the Dark Lord sitting down opposite him, crossing his legs at the ankle and leaning back – staring at him with eyes so familiarly hostile, recognizable in their intensity.

Their eyes were trained on each other as they both put their wands on their thighs, their hands resting over them in a universal cease-fire position – a tentative truce if you will – and a promise.

Albus dragged a hand through his beard and regarded his adversary sullenly. “I’m not certain what this is going to achieve. You’ve put me in an impossible situation.”

“Impossible? Hardly. I would discuss the possibility of an… arrangement,” the being said, Tom Riddle’s dark eyes boring into his own.

“What kind of deal do you propose then?” Albus voiced cynically, “the way I see it, a Dark Lord stands to win no matter what I do.”

Albus had never thought he’d be in this kind of situation. He hadn’t thought he’d be confronted in the school either. Apart from his sincere desire to teach the future generations of witches and wizards, Hogwarts functioned as his fortress.

No drama was supposed to follow him there.

But it had, and the situation was worse than he could’ve ever imagined. Theories were swirling around his head like a brewing storm.

‘Are the students alright?’

‘Is he here for me?’

‘Does he know Gellert?’

‘…What happened to Tom?’

The dark wizard in front of him tilted his head at him and offered an unsettling smile. Tom Riddle smiled like that.

“You’re being awfully pessimistic, Albus. You’re overlooking the most important element here.”

Confused despite himself, Albus raised a bushy eyebrow. “Which is?”

“Why my intentions, of course,” the being told him, “of which I have none, at the moment,” he added, his hand performing an uncaring gesture.

Albus narrowed his eyes at him, lips pulled thin. “Why should I believe you? You’ve made nonsensical claims – why should this be any different?”

“Well said,” the being nodded. “I propose an unbreakable vow between us,” he then suggested, visibly surprising Albus. He hadn’t expected anything like this.

Even if this person wasn’t Tom Riddle, it was very clearly a Slytherin.

“For legitimacy’s sake, we’ll start with a wizard’s oath of truth – from my part, of course, so you may gage my sincerity,” he said then, pointing to himself. Albus’ lips parted slightly, puzzled by the proposal.

Perhaps not a Slytherin after all?

“I will phrase it, so I can omit answering questions if desired. I have rather potent secrets, unfit for certain ears– and as they say, ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. I like to keep my magic where it is, so be careful,” the stranger cautioned _, jokingly._

No, definitely a Slytherin. There was no mistaking the self-interest. But…

This individual was risking their magic – their _life_ – to garner credibility. A rather hazardous method of building trust, even to a Gryffindor.

“An oath of truth sounds promising,” Albus debated, “but in the interest of your secrets – and magic – what questions do you suppose I should ask? You’re risking everything, so I can only assume you’re demanding these limitations out of dire need. Am I correct?”

“Very astute of you, Albus. The truth of the matter is rather dull, however,” the being drawled. “I simply knew I couldn’t hide my presence here from you, which made this confrontation unavoidable in my eyes. A milestone in _this_ existence I have to pass in order to move on to greater things.”

Albus shook his head lightly, tired from a night with barely any sleep. “You are still not making any sense to me.”

“Oh, how the tables have turned…” the being mused, before continuing. “You may ask me of my true identity, my purpose here, about the recent incident… but there is _one question_ I need you to ask me, so I know you’ll believe me.”

The being leaned closer and spoke in a very serious tone. “You will ask me how I am here.”

“That _is_ a good question, but I don’t see how that would be the most important one,” Albus doubted.

“Save it for last. I guarantee you’ll be more than interested by then,” he promised, an extremely uncharacteristic grin making its way across the lips of Tom Riddle.

The deputy headmaster of Hogwarts foresaw a very frustrating time ahead of him.  

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to projects, exams and other important matters, the next chapter will be published around Christmas. With luck, several more chapters will be roughly written during this time, after which I’ll hopefully be able to update on a weekly basis once again. Current status: chapter 18.


	10. Altercatio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone!

Ravenclaw common room was – aptly – placed in Ravenclaw tower, the second tallest structure after the Astronomy tower. Entrance was granted by answering a riddle proposed by a bronze doorknob, encouraging the virtue of wisdom that was the goal of every eagle at Hogwarts.

Upon entering, the common room opened up to a large circular chamber topped with a dome, painted with a starry night sky, with constellations flittering across the ceiling intermittently in a dazzling demonstration of enchantment.

All the walls, sans the fireplace, were covered with endless rows of bookshelves, filled to the brim with tomes and journals. Armchairs and couches were aplenty for the ever-reading population of Ravenclaw tower, providing a cosy, studious and calm atmosphere in bronze and blue.

But Torben wasn't there to study – he was there for  _results._

He hadn't spoken with his brother since the Slytherins pulled him into the train at the platform, but he'd spotted him sitting with Riddle at their table, as stone-faced as the rest of them, so he supposed Mathias must've been busy. And despite the new position, it was rather typical.

His brother had explained that their house didn't tolerate 'improper behaviour,' which Torben guessed categorized anything even remotely resembling an emotional reaction other than contempt.

It was always difficult to see what was going on at the Slytherin table. The upper years were rarely seen speaking, no drama ever evolved and due to a liberal use of privacy spells, the Slytherins were personally responsible for the perception of 'shady business' being conducted at the table.

Even if their reputation was iffy, their influence certainly wasn't. Even the third-years in Ravenclaw knew that much.

It was estimated that ninety percent of Slytherins were purebloods, or at the very least half-bloods with no muggle parents, and absolutely zero percent were muggleborns – but _that_  had certainly changed recently, hadn't it?

Not even a day at Hogwarts, and Torben had already heard fourteen different explanations being made to curious muggleborns or half-bloods, confused as to the sudden interest being paid to the middle of the Slytherin table – to Tom Riddle.

If Torben had to be honest with himself – and he tried to be, as a general rule – he found it quite funny. He played around with the idea that the reason Tom Riddle's blood status wasn't yet known, was because the Slytherins were too  _proud of him_  to ask.

Nonetheless, he knew he couldn't allow himself to be picky either. Torben knew that Riddle was an exceptionally talented wizard – every Ravenclaw knew – so even if he turned out to be a mudblood, he'd accept his teachings. Seek knowledge where knowledge is found and all, as they say.

When Torben thought he'd waited long enough, he spotted Florent Gladstone enter the common room.

Gladstone was a sixth-year half-blood from an old wizarding family, both his parents being magical, but since he had _one_  muggle grandmother, he couldn't be classified as a pureblood. One must have four magical grandparents and two magical parents to be a pureblood, and even that wasn't always good enough for the older families. Righting that wrong was, in general terms, considered 'purifying the family,' and when Florent Gladstone married the right witch and had magical children of his own, the family honour would be 'restored,' in a sense.

The Gladstones' saving grace was their well-off businesses, which Torben supposed helped them a long way in retaining some respect. But the Gladstones would never be considered an  _authentic_ pureblood family ever again.

Pureblood numbers decreased every year, and for as long as he could remember, Torben heard his family agonize over foolish purebloods sullying their families with the lesser blood of muggles and half-bloods.

As a Ravenclaw, and not a Slytherin like most of his family, he attempted to maintain a firm distance from this unnecessary drama. The whole matter was overrated, in his personal opinion – though he did seek to spare them the pain in the future.

"Gladstone!" he spoke up, catching the wizard's attention. The bespectacled sixth-year stopped up and looked to him.

"Nott," he greeted politely. "What can I help you with?"

Torben grinned at him and proclaimed proudly, "I would like to cash in the bet."

Florent Gladstone looked sceptical. "Well, I highly doubt that," he countered, smiling arrogantly at him as he pulled out what looked to be a thick collection of parchments.

"I'm pretty sure I have it figured out. I've done my research this summer and assembled all my results in this report, which I'm giving to Professor Kettleburn for extra credits."

"…But I know what it is. You can't just decide you've won your own bet without hearing me out!" Torben exclaimed and Gladstone had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. He let out a gruff noise as he responded.

"Very well then Nott, what do  _you_  think it is?"

Torben offered another wide grin. "An  _Acromantula!_ "

Gladstone, the prick, chortled. "Ehm, no. Afraid not,  _Nott,"_  he denied with a satisfied smirk as he stared him down. "My research clearly shows that the perpetrator of the attacks was a  _Streeler_  – a poisonous snail."

He couldn't help himself. Torben laughed him in the face. "Oh Merlin, a _snail_! If only," he laughed, causing the older boy to redden in anger.

"It doesn't matter what you think, Nott. My report supports it, so your scepticism is unneeded," he dismissed. Other Ravenclaws from different years were sniggering around them, listening to the discussion, but Torben remained unperturbed.

"And your report doesn't matter  _shite,_  Gladstone, because I have  _very_  reliable sources of my own," he claimed with confidence.

The sixth-year raised a dismissive eyebrow. "Yeah? You're a  _third-year_. There's no need for your posturing."

"Wait a second, Florent – I wanna hear about this source of his," one of Gladstone's mates said then, several other eagles chiming in, curious as ever.

"When and where did you acquire this source claiming  _Acromantula,_  Nott?"

The smile slid off his face and Torben couldn't help becoming slightly hesitant. They waited patiently as his bravado escaped him.

"Well…" he started, mentally preparing himself for a lengthy explanation. "It definitely took some convincing, that's for certain. We went to the Battle of The Birds…" he trailed off, frantically searching for the words needed to properly explain the context.

Everyone quieted at his words and Gladstone looked notably distressed.

A moment passed as the silence became apparent to him.

"Oh…" someone said quietly in realization.

"…You spoke to Riddle," Gladstone concluded unexpectedly. Torben simply nodded, slightly surprised he'd caught on as fast as he had. Gladstone grimaced uncomfortably in response.

Had Gladstone really not thought to do so? Torben thought it unlikely that he wouldn't have.

The sixth-year looked at his report with a pinched expression. "Where in the good sense of The Founders did Rubeus Hagrid manage to find a giant illegal spider...?" he mumbled irately, looking defeated – apparently not even for a moment reconsidering the credibility of Tom Riddle.

Torben took a moment to enjoy it, having not expected Tom's name to work quite so effectively.

Conclusively, Florent Gladstone agreed to concede his win to Torben, after which the surrounding eagles clapped politely. The sixth-year then took five very long steps towards the lit fireplace, tossed his elaborate Streeler research report into the fire, then left for his dormitory in a huff.

After several congratulations, Hubertus Mulciber, a fourth-year student he'd befriended, approached him.

"Congrats Ben – on the bet, but also on your successful vanquishing of the prat," he complimented. "What did you win?"

"Forty-two Galleons from the pool and a nice amount of  _satisfaction_." Torben grinned mischievously, Hubertus returning a much similar expression.

"Decent," the other nodded.

Torben then riffled through the pockets of his robes and produced a couple of small knives.

"Say, Bert, do you know of anywhere I can practice? It's really important," he said inspecting the sharp little tools.

Hubertus looked uneasy but sighed and led him out of the common room.

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"I hereby swear on my magic to tell the truth  _as I know it,_  and only the truth, for as long as I maintain the magic of this vow – retaining the option to not answer if the question is undesirable. So mote it be."

Albus hummed, fascinated. "The vow is in effect," he confirmed, surprised despite himself. They'd specified the wording of the vow for the past half an hour, but Albus had to confess that he hadn't expected the other to really agree with his wishes. The only compromise he had to make was allowing the other to control the lifetime of the spell – which was fair, in all honesty.

Not that Albus thought anything about this whole affair was fair to start with, but he supposed he had to take what he could get.

The dark wizard looked expectantly at him.

"Very well then…" Albus said, taking a deep breath. He repositioned his glasses slightly and stared into the stranger's eyes. It was a shame Legilimency was out of the question because his opponent's poker face was simply  _impeccable._

"What is your full name?"

'Let's go slow, to start with,' he thought.

" _Tom Marvolo Riddle."_

Albus' lips parted slightly.

He stared at the other, only now really taking in the individual's appearance and countenance. The black, wavy short hair. The deep brown eyes. The long limbs. The self-satisfied smirk.

"Truly?" he whispered, eyes widened slightly behind his spectacles.

"I don't like repeating myself," Tom informed him with a notable undertone of displeasure. " _Yes_ , I am indeed,  _myself_ ," the wizard added unnecessarily. "Can we move on?"

"No," Albus decided straightaway, mildly breathless in his deliverance. "Answer me this: What did Tom Riddle hide in his wardrobe when I first met him?"

He'd never uttered the happenings of what transpired that day. He'd scarcely begun his collection of memories, and that particular one still sat nesting in his subconscious to this day.

Forcibly _stolen_  memories were known to be hazy and incomplete the farther back in time they occurred. No imposter, possessed or otherwise, could possibly have access to this information.

But… he suspected this was no imposter.

"Questioning whether my identity is a delusion? Very well," Tom drawled. "I was hiding whatever I'd stolen from the other children of the orphanage – after which you demanded I handed them back. Which I never did.  _Now_ ," he reiterated, vexed, "can we continue?"

"Perform a spell," Albus quickly interjected.

Tom Riddle sighed with obvious exasperation and took hold of his wand. Albus' hand hovered over his own.

" _Avis,"_  he said as he swished his wand in a small arch, causing a small murder of canaries to appear out of thin air, twittering as they disappeared off to somewhere in the office.

"Unbelievable…" Albus muttered, having never been so fascinated by the Avis spell being performed in his whole life.

Its existence, as well as the answers he'd been provided, proved beyond a doubt that the person in front of him, the Dark Lord… was indeed Tom Riddle.

"How is this possible?"

The wizard said nothing. Apparently, that was not the correct question. They'd discussed this already, but he supposed the silence served to remind him.

As it stood, Albus was too amazed to care.

"Right," he said, coughing slightly to mask his lapse of control. "Why are you here?"

Getting back to business – even if this is Tom Riddle, he must surely have an agenda.

"This is a fortress, is it not?"

"That does not answer my question… Tom."

"Ah, but do I lie?"

He did not – which grated on Albus' nerves in a way that couldn't properly be articulated. An oath of truth might spare him of lies, but he still risked being bereft of answers.

Tom offered a poor imitation of a placating smile and chose to answer his question regardless.

"I'm here to  _enjoy_  Hogwarts – a small vacation from the absolute tragedy that has been my life if you will," Tom told him with a put-upon tone of voice. Albus had never heard the other speak in this manner.

"Besides fixing some mistakes that were made, I intend to research in my free time and explore the castle."

Albus placed his hand on his forehead and leaned back, nonplussed.

"That is everything you want?"

Tom Riddle smiled and said nothing.  _Of course,_  that isn't everything he wanted. Slytherins with their five thousand and thirteen hidden agendas – always must there be a mystery in the making. But Albus had taught and interacted with many a Slytherin during his time here and wasn't unaware of their ways. Horace himself made certain to remind him on a weekly basis.

He decided to rephrase his question.

"What are you _currently_  doing here?"

"Exercising my self-control," Tom snapped at him. "I have been in the castle for barely sixteen hours and all I've managed to accomplish is distracting you from your duties, performing my role as a prefect and failing to finish breakfast – which is entirely your fault, as you know."

Tom Riddle had never been this chatty before.

Neither had he been a Dark Lord.

Albus narrowed his eyes at the young wizard in front of him, his ire rising. A lot of things didn't add up.

" _What_  are you?"

Tom raised an eyebrow at him, very subtly amused, but answered nonetheless.

"Human, male, wizard, dark wizard, Dark Lord –  _Slytherin_." Albus nodded slowly.

What an interesting way to remind him of his ability to speak to snakes… He'd told him nothing surprising, but to have such information confirmed was disconcerting. And yet – validating. He could ask for a demonstration, but it felt entirely redundant at this point.

Another confirmation caught his attention, however. His – status.

Few people actually knew what it took to become a Dark Lord. Albus had studied magic for decades, all kinds, and even he wouldn't have stumbled upon that specific piece of information if it hadn't been for his old mentor, Nicolas Flamel.

Being the apprentice of a five hundred and fifty-year-old wizard allowed you access to the most fascinating knowledge and accounts, most of which were personal. When Gellert had reappeared as a Dark Lord after a long time of inaction – and though beyond disheartened, Albus had been morbidly curious about the foundations of the change.

He'd sought out Nicolas during this awful time and the old wizard had looked at him so sadly, when he'd asked.

" _To become a Dark Lord… one must discard all regret. They live only for themselves – courting powers unfit for the best of us. Remember Albus… their magic feels like the caress of death."_

Albus had since met several Dark Lords and Ladies – all powerful in their own right. And though oftentimes dramatic and revolutionary – his mentor had been correct. Drowned in madness or not, Dark Lords were devoid of regret. All of them criminals in one way or another – enemies of the natural order.

Dark Lords were made from a lack of remorse for their actions or goals – infamously uncaring in whichever manner they are achieved. Immensely dangerous and motivated more than any others. Physically, they all had but  _one_  common denominator, however.

They were all at the very  _least_  in their forties or fifties… Evidently, it took time.

So how could Tom Riddle have managed it?

"How did you manage to become a Dark Lord this _young_?" he asked, his curiosity warring with his peace of mind.

Silence ensued and Albus felt slightly frustrated.  _Wrong question._

He took a moment to remember their earlier discussion, intent on getting his answers. It was then that he remembered the other's…  _request._

The older wizard then hunched forward and clasped his hands together, regarding his silently glowering student as he would an outstandingly daring chess opponent.

" _How_ … are you here?" he asked.

He was momentarily taken aback by the sudden expression of chilling  _wrath_  that took over Tom's face.

" _I died_ ," Tom  _spat_  at him, apparently very angry about that fact. Albus refused to believe what he was hearing.

"That makes no sense,  _Tom Riddle!_  How are you here if you are  _dead_?" Albus questioned him in immense frustration, gesturing towards his clearly very  _alive_ body.

"I haven't died  _yet_ , Albus. But I did… in the  _future_. Several times, in fact," Tom confided sullenly. His words forced a terrifying reaction out of Albus – as if all the blood left his body at once. No…

"…You cheated death…" Albus breathed, astonished and horrified simultaneously.

"Yes." It was pleasure and disgust wrapped up in one word.

"How did you manage it…?"

'Did he find  _them_ …?' he thought, dreading the answer though he demanded it all the same. How could he not? The implications were frightening to contemplate.

"I'm not certain how I am  _here_  specifically…" the Dark Lord trailed off thoughtfully. "I know I must have died. My failsafes were definitely destroyed – but I was merely hit by a disarming spell. Clearly, something went very wrong."

Albus let out a long exhale and rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, unsure how to process this information. The words both reassuring and immensely confusing. The wizard before him seemed uncaring of his predicament however, seemingly focused on his reminiscences.

"I believe it must've been the sixth time I tried casting the killing curse at that particular opponent. Same result," he told Albus, sounding slightly morose at recounting his failed murder attempt.

"Tom…" he practically  _begged,_  but Tom Riddle seemed unconcerned by his discomfit. He quieted though, providing him time to get his whirling thoughts in order.

Albus took off his pointed wizard's hat and dragged a hand through his hair, thinking. The young wizard in front of him waited, observing him.

"How far back did you travel when you… died?"

Tom hummed slightly in response. "I arrived on the nineteenth of August. After my… defeat, I woke up in this body almost fifty-five years in the past. I am from 1998."

"Unbelievable…"

Tom then lit the end of his wand and sent Albus another eerie smirk.

The oath was still very much active… No lies had been told.

Tom Riddle terminated the vow – the two powerful wizards sat then in silence, regarding each other – one in shock and the other cautious.

01101111 00100000 01100010

Tom decided at that point to cancel the vow.

The younger Dumbledore in front of him sat hunched over his own knees, his wand hanging loosely from one hand. It would be a simple task to dispose of him in that state, but it was also exceedingly unnecessary.

Albus Dumbledore couldn't hurt him, because the consequences would be too extensive. Similarly, Tom couldn't very well get away with hurting him either – unprovoked, that is.

They were at a stalemate.

Albus could do nothing, and Tom could only react. Neither particularly pleased with the situation.

"Of all the people to travel back in time… it would be  _you_ ," Albus murmured unhappily, bereft of his usual cheer. Tom elected to not take it personally. He was in truth rather baffled himself.

"To summarize – in the future, you become a Dark Lord, and travelling back in time did not change that," Albus voiced, and Tom nodded, his gaze moving to the window. It was raining.

A couple of minutes went by. The atmosphere gradually lost its tenseness as the water drizzled down the coloured glass of the windows. Tom closed his eyes as he waited for Albus to collect his thoughts.

He idly decided that he liked the sound of rain, the sound of the droplets replacing the residual noise his memories kept haunting him with.

Albus took another deep breath, drawing him out of his slight lapse of meditation.

"I'm aware the vow isn't in effect any longer, so I might not know if you lie," the man paused, "but could you tell me – what happened to you? To turn you into –"

"Don't even think of mentioning what you saw," Tom interrupted him, his eyes opening to regard the other wizard with clear contempt. "I do not wish to be reminded of my mistakes in such a way."

"Mistakes – Do you mean to tell me that you  _regret?"_  Albus asked him, sounding surprised.

"I have a very wide collection of regrets," he admitted with minimal intent. "I do not – cannot – dwell on them." His eyes narrowed pointedly.

"I'm sure you're not unfamiliar with the concept," Tom told Albus unkindly, and the other nodded reluctantly, looking displeased.

"I understand that," Albus told him, "what I don't understand is what  _happened_ , Tom. What did you do?"

"Very dark magic, the likes you've likely never experienced before. But I'm sure that doesn't come as a surprise. The problem was – I ruined all my chances  _too early_ ," he stressed, and Albus furrowed his brows.

"When?" he asked.

"Now," Tom said seriously, "this year was the start of my descent into madness. I was so young… so foolish," he reminisced.

"This year…" Albus murmured. He then narrowed his eyes and lifted his wand once more, but not very far. His grip was strong with the urge to apprehend him, no doubt.

Tom didn't have to wonder where Albus' mind had travelled.

"So, it  _was_  you… wasn't it?" He sounded upset and disappointed.

"One of many unwise decisions made this year," Tom confirmed, uncaringly.

He didn't see the need to mask his previous mistakes from the wizard. Acknowledging them put them into perspective and though the thought of sharing an opinion with Albus Dumbledore would've sounded absurd in any other context – he knew certifying his sanity though another could be beneficial.

And he was sure to receive quite the perspective indeed.

" _Why?"_

"You are aware I can lie, no?" Tom reminded Albus, amused at his persistence. Albus said nothing, just looked at him with those characteristic, disappointed eyes he always reserved for no one but him.

"Her death was merely a stepping stone for me," he continued, answering Albus' question regardless.

"I thought myself so invincible… thinking I was able to control the darkness. I wasn't. I was merely a child, playing with powers beyond my control. My mistakes ruined my entire life."

"Oh, Tom…" Albus breathed sadly, looking at him with such  _pity_ through his distress. Tom sent him a look filled with anger.

"Spare me your songs of redemption, Albus, and leave the singing to your infernal bird. I do not care for it."

Albus Dumbledore ignored his comment. "Acknowledging your mistakes is a big step forward – a step I wasn't aware a Dark Lord could make."

"I wouldn't exactly categorize my decision to become a Dark Lord as a  _conscious_  one."

Albus pursed his lips in confusion, stroking his beard once more. "In what manner do you mean?"

Tom took a moment and massaged his forehead, shoving his consternation about the entire situation to the back of his mind.

"I became completely and utterly insane. Unaware of my own thoughts and feelings. But it was more than that," Tom said, levelling Albus with an angry stare. "We don't need to pretend like you didn't see. I wasn't human any longer," he hissed. The professor suddenly looked the age he remembered him by.

"To think… I failed a student to such a degree."

"Descend your ivory tower, Albus. This has nothing to do with you. I've killed  _hundreds,_ completely voluntarily. You tried to defeat me for  _decades_  with minimal luck – I made my own mistakes and I would've made them regardless of your interference. Besides – "

Tom felt a sly grin spread across his lips.

"Your willingness to sacrifice the lives of your students to defeat me was top-notch effort – best I've seen from you, in fact. What interesting times we live in, hm?" he smiled, but it didn't seem like Albus appreciated it one bit.

He said nothing though, watching him.

Tom gave the physically older man another minute to burn a hole into his forehead before he grew tired of the wait.

"I suppose you see now why an Unbreakable Vow is in everyone's best interest?"

He'd agree – in protest no doubt, but Tom knew a vow would be the only way to achieve any kind of _civility_  during his time here. An odd achievement, but a necessary one. One could only be a participant in a  _single_  Unbreakable Vow at a time, and Tom knew the fool couldn't possibly miss a chance to play the martyr. For the greater good – he'd risk everything he had.

Albus Dumbledore stood and moved to a window, twirling his tan wand in his hand.

"…You have two years left of your education," Albus voiced, looking out into the rain. Tom casually observed him, interested to hear where the professor's thoughts led him.

"If you are to… take your leisure time here, then I have certain guarantees that you must make me,  _Tom Riddle_."

"It almost sounds like you don't trust me, Albus."

As he went ignored, the other man moved to his desk to find a piece of parchment and a quill. He started writing.

"I do not have the time or inclination to breathe down your neck at all times, and I'm guessing it'd be very unwanted as well," he trailed off questioningly.

"Quite," he agreed.

The man continued his scribbling.

"Suppose we were to make an Unbreakable Vow, I'd need the basics covered," the man told him distractedly, and Tom raised an eyebrow.

"I'm at the edge of my seat," Tom drawled.

Albus paused abruptly in his scribbling to regard the Dark Lord with a look of complete exasperation.

"Whence did this sarcasm originate?" he wondered in obvious befuddlement, if not with a touch of approval.

Tom grimaced lightly and turned his head away from the other man. He thought he heard Dumbledore huff out a laugh, but it could've been his imagination.

Bloody Albus Dumbledore.

"Right then," the Gryffindor declared. "I have six fundamental requirements that must be met if I am to agree to let you stay in the castle."

Tom sighed and stood. He moved dispassionately to the desk, took hold of Albus' list and read.

"Don't kill or harm anyone.

Don't leave the castle.

Don't smuggle dark artefacts into the school.

Don't practice dark magic.

Don't corrupt other students.

Don't tell anyone you're a Dark Lord from 1998. "

Tom squinted at the last one. "As opposed to a Dark Lord from 1967? Completely understandable. Those years were particularly daunting."

"I don't know whether to encourage your newfound sass or to be insulted by it," Albus pondered aloud.

"Regardless, I cannot accept any of these… 'fundamental requirements' of yours," Tom dismissed, replacing the parchment on the desk.

"What is the matter with preventing you from harming my students?"

"The fact of the matter that we are in a school filled with uncontrollable children and teenagers, most of whom are currently angry with me for one reason or another, and that you somehow expect me  _not_  to defend myself if attacked or dishonoured?" Tom questioned sceptically.

"Alright, I concede that might've been a tad ambitious of me," Albus allowed. "How about vowing that you will not kill on purpose or injure with the intent to harm?"

"Specify  _harm."_

"Merlin…" Dumbledore moaned, palming his face.

They subsequently missed lunch.

01100101 00100000 01101111

'What an interesting muggle term… racism. I'm not entirely sure I understand the fixation on skin colour. The book alludes to a much broader definition from what I can gather…' Darius wondered.

He sat reading in the Slytherin common room, pausing infrequently to debate with himself the meanings of words and concepts he'd never heard of before. The book was undoubtedly an interesting read, filled with information he would've never encountered had he not acted on an impulse – but Darius held no illusions to its origin. He knew where Tom had acquired it – who had written it.

He added the word 'racism' to his mental catalogue of words he needed his leader to clarify for him. He simply  _dreaded_ the thought of consulting a muggleborn, so he hoped the resident Slytherin enigma could – would – assist, eventually.

Abraxas lounged on the couch beside him, studying his potions book. Apparently, the Malfoy was convinced he'd need to memorize the entirety of the book's side-notes to impress Professor Slughorn, but Darius knew Abraxas could impress the professor simply by coming to class. The man adored him – a prized piece in his collection, as everyone in their group was.

The half-Greek wizard was then summarily interrupted by two fifth-year Slytherins, standing in front of his seat and casting a shadow over the pages of his book.

The school year had only just started – surely, they weren't already making a go for it?

The smaller one to the right – Wilson? – sneered down at him and gestured with disgust at his copy of Tom's book.

"The cover of that book reminds me an awful lot of a mudblood's. Did you steal it or something?"

The topic of confrontation wasn't surprising in the least – he would've likely done something similar, had the circumstances been reversed. Though undoubtedly with far more class than what was currently being exhibited by his would-be opponent.

Darius merely kept silent, giving them time to reconsider.

His aloofness didn't fall on good ground, however, and the two fifth-years swiftly grew flustered with embarrassment and anger. Their aggressiveness was as unflattering as their attempt at humiliating him.

"Are you reading a muggle book, Carrow?!" the taller – perhaps a Harris? – repeated, upping the volume of their idiocy.

' _Lovely_ , now there's no excuse,' he thought tiredly. Tom's situation clearly wouldn't be an isolated affair.

Despite the loudness of the boys, the blond beside him merely twitched an eyebrow in annoyance, concentrated as he was on his book. Darius couldn't fathom how facts about the breeding grounds of a Moonlight Mushroom could be direr than his plight –

No, he could. This was exceedingly tiresome. He sort of understood why Tom had kept his hobby to himself.

Darius supposed he was on his own then.

His thoughts cycled through a few appropriate possibilities before he closed his book and looked to the two little annoyances before him.

His dark stare caused them to grab onto their wands in preparation. They looked uneasy, their actions speaking of completely unnecessary hostility.

"Do we have a problem with my reading material?" Darius questioned them casually, his face maintaining an outwardly friendly façade, while his eyes dared them to continue their antics.

Their embarrassment slowly receded from their faces, replaced by doubt. The boys then visibly assembled their backbones and nodded at him defiantly. They were looking around them, seeking support.

Harris' and Wilson's eyes fell on Abraxas, but he didn't deign to grace them with his attention. They knew they were on their own.

"Are you completely certain you want to do that?" Darius questioned them again, leaning back in his seat. The fifth-years' feet shifted slightly, but they were evidently convinced they could get the upper hand on him by accusing him of consorting with muggle objects. They remained resolute.

After their confirmation, Darius nodded slowly and let out a soft sigh. He absentmindedly studied the cover of his book as he spoke to them once more.

"Tomorrow morning, Professor Slughorn will be made aware of your secret stash of illegal potion ingredients, that you've hidden behind the bookshelf in your room."

"We have no such thing!" they sputtered.

"Don't you?" Darius asks them, raising an eyebrow. "Are you completely certain of that?"

They look frightened in their denial.

" _I'm_  certain that if Slughorn riffles through your belongings tomorrow, he will find incriminating evidence to the contrary."

Darius smiled at them lazily and reopened his book. Getting caught in possession of illegal substances was a definite way to contract Slughorn's anger. They'd get the boot within a day.

"Now, do we have an issue with my reading material?"

They shook their heads quickly, and sensing that they'd lost the game, they stammered out small apologies, before scampering off.

'Amateurs. Didn't even think to consider where I'd acquire the ingredients.'

Abraxas finally looked to him

"It's your own fault for reading Tom's silly muggle book in the common room," he told him languidly, seemingly unaffected by the whole affair.

Darius shrugged uncaringly and continued reading undisturbed.

01100010 01100101 01111001

Not an awful lot was going on at the Gryffindor table. The students of red and gold had just finished their lunch and were now discussing schedules, teachers and summer stories.

Odette Davenport herself was sat beside her friend Lazarus Prewett, reading the Daily Prophet he'd received via owl mail. She didn't quite understand most of what was written, having been brought up in the muggle world, but she was making a valiant attempt nonetheless.

She let out another giggle as her ginger friend read another theory out loud for the table.

"A Welsh witch in her mid-fifties recently claimed to have heard of a Riddle family while she was travelling through Albania. The family was said to have been called so because they never told anyone their names, and so were dubbed the 'Riddles,' because they believed their name was taboo – and therefore shouldn't be said! The witch also admitted to having been smoking generous amounts of aconite leaves prior to this interview, so her account remains unsupported!"

Lazarus guffawed. "Oh Merlin! This is better than the theory that he was banished here by the magical military of Croatia! I can't  _breathe,"_  he wheezed out, laughing his face into the table.

"Oh goodness Lazarus – here, drink some juice," Odette offered as the boy let out another gasp. She smiled wide at the hilarity, enjoying the absurdness of it all with the other Gryffindors around her.

"I feel like the more theories I read about this Slytherin, the more I wanna meet him!" Lazarus exclaimed boisterously.

Odette twirled a strand of her short blonde hair between her fingers and nodded agreeably.

Meeting a Slytherin? She hadn't had the pleasure of more than a couple of acquaintances from that house. She knew her… status was slightly controversial.

This boy that the wizarding papers were spinning tales about seemed like he could need some support, however. But to think – someone had to die before they even noticed he existed. He was in their year, she probably even had classes with him, but then the awful incident with The Chamber and Hagrid happened, and now he was the first Slytherin besides Malfoy on anyone's mind if asked to name a snake.

What a sad thing to be remembered by. Death and conspiracy.

"I wonder what the Slytherins think of this?" Lazarus asked rhetorically in a wistful tone of voice.

"Got a better shot at kissing a Veela than getting any straight answers out of that lot," Odette's dorm mate, Patricia, joked.

"True! – but could you  _imagine?_  Slytherins hate this kind of attention. I think there's complete anarchy down there! The slimy snakes are probably conducting their dark rituals over a bonfire made of  _Daily Prophets!"_  Lazarus laughed out, slapping the paper onto the middle of their table and performing a great show of miming the ritual dancing he seemingly suspected was going on down there.

"You think this is fucking funny?" an older Gryffindor boy interrupted them, aiming spiteful eyes at Lazarus in particular.

"Do you even understand why they're writing about him in the first place?!" he continued, glowering at them. "He caused a bloody riot! Sixteen people died! SIXTEEN!" the Gryffindor choked.

Odette looked at him sympathetically. "We… we know that – and it's horrible, but Riddle couldn't have –" she tried to placate him but was cut off almost immediately.

"If you're laughing – it's the same as condoning it!"

"Now wait just a minute, Wood! We're not condoning anything, and Riddle didn't cause whatever happened there!" her year-mate Alexis butted in, pointing a finger at the angry boy with a serious expression on her face.

"I think the World Wizarding News had the right idea. It's obvious that the  _Quidditch League_  wasn't equipped well enough to deal with the riot!  _And_  I've read criticism detailing the Aurors' failure to use Petrificus Totalus, when they instead decided to herd people like cattle towards a single exit, hoping to bottleneck the crazies – not realizing that they were causing people to panic, especially after they put up anti-apparation wards on top of everything! They could've thrown portkeys at people, but no~" Alexis mocked, "that's _way_  too expensive!" she ranted on, her arms crossed as she huffed. Odette had to confess she was impressed by the other girl's tenacity.

The boy – Wood? She was terrible at names – gritted his teeth at Alexis, clearly disagreeing with her analysis.

"None of that would've happened if Riddle – the bloody _snake_ , hadn't decided to  _cheat_ his way out of poverty!" Wood informed them roughly. "If he hadn't been there to incite a riot, my cousin would still be alive!" he cried angrily as he pointed to the Hufflepuff table, attracting attention from other students around the hall.

Prompted, Odette and the others remembered then that –  _yes_ , a student had  _died_ this summer.

They'd heard Headmaster Dippet mention it, but he'd glossed over it so casually, that it seemed like the matter had already been dealt with. He'd barely even mentioned the student…

Had the student from Hufflepuff been Wood's cousin?

Now Odette felt absolutely awful.

"We didn't mean anything by it," Odette told Wood timidly, imploring him to believe her sincerity. Lazarus nodded as well, laugh lines replaced with a genuineness that couldn't be mistaken for anything else.

Wood studied their faces depressingly for a moment before he stomped out of the hall in a rush, wiping the tears that had been ebbing in his eyes away as he left.

Minutes passed in silence, the mood thoroughly ruined. Odette was quite sure funny muggle facts couldn't salvage the atmosphere, so she wasn't even going to try.

She stared into the table, but out of the corner of the eye, she spotted the Daily Prophet and squinted uncertainly. She pointed to it, attracting her friends' attention.

"Did you notice this?" she inquired curiously, prompting Lazarus and the others to glance at the paper once more.

It was a picture of Tom Riddle as he appeared on the banner at the stadium. The quality wasn't ideal, but most of the writing was decipherable.

"Oh… so that might be why they keep making all these wild theories…" Patricia murmured. "I thought they were just doing it because he was an orphan."

"Undetermined?" Odette read questioningly, looking to Lazarus for guidance. Said boy noticed the girls were focusing their attention on him.

"What?" he asked.

"What do you mean 'what?'" Alexis burst out. "I spent all my summer with my mum's muggle parents and Patricia and Odette were raised in the muggle world. What do they mean by 'undetermined?'"

"Well – you said it yourself. He's an orphan. The papers claim he was brought up in an orphanage," he told them, scratching at his curly red locks. "His blood-status is unknown. Apparently, the Aurors weren't forthcoming with information, but the journalists  _did_  manage to piece together that he secluded himself in the muggle world to avoid them – the press, that is."

"A Slytherin hiding in the muggle world?" Patricia mumbled disbelievingly, shaking her head.

"Which orphanage?" Alexis questioned instead.

Lazarus was about to answer, but he closed his mouth before any sound escaped. He looked thoughtful.

"Now that you mention it, I don't think I've read the name of the orphanage anywhere. I think there's only… one or two orphanages for orphaned witches or wizards in England, so I suppose it must be one of them?"

"Can't have been that difficult to find out then. Why haven't the Daily Prophet informed it? They would definitely do that, wouldn't they? I don't see them respecting anyone's privacy in any way," Alexis said, sounding frustrated.

"Do you think…" Odette thought out loud, staring at the picture.

"What's on your mind, Dot?" Lazarus questioned her, encouraging her to speak her mind as he always did. So different from the muggle boys she knew – she adored wizards. Most of them, in any case.

She bit her lip, working through the question in her mind.

"Lazarus… is there a Riddle family in wizarding Britain?"

Patricia raised her eyebrows and gestured towards the papers. "It sure doesn't seem like the papers have any clue where he comes from."

The Prewett pursed his lips as he thought. "I've read about all the major families of England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland during my classes with the tutors," he started, before looking to the girls. "I know you haven't had the same kind of education I've had, so basically…" he paused, and his face transitioned into an expression of vague discomfort. It was clear he didn't think they'd like what he'd explain next.

"…There's not a lot of pureblood families in England left. Many old families today are off-shoots of only twenty-eight families, of which my family is one. This means… most of us purebloods are in one way or another related."

"…Please explain what you mean by that," Patricia asked hesitantly.

Lazarus sighed. "In order to remain pure, the sacred twenty-eight have had to only marry witches and wizards with pure blood, and with a limited about of pureblooded families, this means…"

"Incest," Odette concluded, appalled. "…Oh my world," she said followingly, burying her face in her hands. Lazarus looked away uncomfortably, avoiding the girls' eyes.

Alexis grimaced slightly. "Alright, I kind of knew that… My family is related to the Macmillans – but it's not like you marry brothers and sisters, right? It would be cousin to cousin."

"Today, everyone is someone's cousin, however many removed they may be," he explained reluctantly. "Some families, like the Blacks, Gaunts and Selwyns are known to marry first cousins, and sometimes even siblings together,  _however,_  while this is heavily frowned upon… it's not exactly illegal," he summarized, and Odette felt kind of sick.

He then slapped his hands onto the table and broke them out of their thoughts. "ANYWAY!" he  _almost_  yelled, "my point is… I've heard of most, if not all the wizarding families of the British Isles in my classes, but I don't recall ever hearing of a Riddle family," he concluded.

"Right…" Patricia said and then looked to Odette. It'd been her question, so she supposed she had to finish her inquiry, despite the disturbing distraction that had just transpired.

"If there's no Riddle family, do you suppose Tom Riddle might be a _muggleborn?"_

The question sort of hung in the air like a bad joke at a funeral.

Alexis looked highly sceptical. "That is presuming that the Slytherins somehow accepted that…" she said, gesturing over her shoulder to the green and silver table.

"It has been theorized in a round-about way, but I've heard that muggleborns simply don't get accepted into the house," Lazarus said.

"But muggleborns can be cunning and ambitious as well," Odette insisted, and Patricia nodded.

"They most definitely can," she agreed, "so I don't see why that couldn't have happened. Why should Slytherin be inherently different from the other three houses in that way? Godric Gryffindor made that sorting hat, _not_ Salazar Slytherin. I have a hard time believing he'd enchant the hat to specifically avoid putting muggleborns in Slytherin."

"So  _could_  he be a muggleborn? It would explain why the Daily Prophet didn't know the name of the orphanage he grew up in, and why he went to the  _muggle world_  to get away from it all," Odette theorized, pressing Lazarus for answers. He raised his hands in defence.

"I have no idea? In my personal opinion, judging from his very  _alive_  state of health, I think he might be a half-blood… or he's been pretending to be?" he trailed off suspiciously.

"Oh my God," Patricia said, failing to substitute 'God' with 'Merlin,' contrary to wizarding custom.

"What if the papers just outed him! What if the only reason he's been functioning in Slytherin is because he'd successfully out-Slytherin-ed them, hiding his status!" she exclaimed, almost sounding impressed and inventing a new word while she was at it.

"If that's the case, then Riddle is very fucked."

"Language, Prewett!" Odette admonished, but the red-haired boy of sixteen merely grinned roguishly at her.

Alexis looked very thoughtful, drumming her fingers against the surface of the table.

"But what if that really  _is_  true… then not only is Riddle dealing with people like Wood hounding him for an awful incident he didn't cause, but  _also_ with surviving Slytherin as the only muggleborn in the house… That's so messed up."

Though Lazarus remained doubtful – Odette immediately understood Alexis' point, as did Patricia.

' _What was Riddle going through? Was he all alone? Who was helping him?'_

01100101 01100100 00100000

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's to hoping the next chapter will be out in a week! Thanks for reading!


	11. Pactum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a little later than anticipated – hope you don’t mind. Thank you for all the lovely comments! Here’s a fairly long chapter to celebrate the new year.

Tom put away his cutlery, picked up the fifth draft of their  _very_  necessary arrangement and read.

He couldn't help but stare.

Albus had been sitting with said dark wizard for several hours now and discussing their issues with the vow for longer than he'd initially thought any negotiation ought to last. A grey little house elf had eventually thought to bring them their lunch, beseeching them to eat lest they forget to do so entirely.

One might say that the situation was oddly civil, especially considering how their meeting had started out.

While Tom looked every part the student he remembered, he also didn't. His movements were more confident, as if the wizard had nothing to hide – though Albus was most certain he did. The  _man's_  posture and mannerisms were refined in a manner that signified ingrained habits learned over a lifetime of repetitions.

Speaking with him, his countenance paired with his appearance made him seem strangely ageless. Albus knew Tom was – now – in reality, seventy-one years old, surpassing his sixty-two years in a convoluted way that Albus wasn't sure he agreed with.

Albus Dumbledore was well aware that he wasn't a young man anymore _._  His beard was losing its previous brown-red tinge, the hairs were beginning to be interspersed with silver streaks and wrinkles and laugh lines were becoming increasingly more pronounced every year. Being a wizard, one kept well and enjoyed a good long life, which meant Albus was only touching the half-way mark of his life expectancy.

However, while his body couldn't be said to exist in its prime any longer, his magic most assuredly did.

Magic grew with age. In capacity, but also in relation to how it was utilized – and who controlled it. The power was intimately connected to the soul, which was why Tom Riddle's status of a Dark Lord was still very much an actuality – unwittingly prompting Albus' mind to stray to theories of magic he'd long thought fruitless to contemplate.

Sadly, it made sense to him. It was simply  _too late_  for Tom Riddle.

From the time when Tom grew into the person he became, his magic followed his soul every step of the way – even into the past. Soul and magic were difficult entities to separate and were generally considered to be harmonious in their balance.

Their order.

Reflecting upon the Dark Lord's experiences, Albus thought Tom immensely lucky to have  _somehow_ regained his sanity at all. Tom seemed unwilling to expound upon the exact circumstances of his preliminary loss, and though Albus was keen on the details, for future references if nothing else, he also suspected the knowledge would be dreadfully useless to him. Dark magic held no place in his heart, and that was how he preferred it to be.

He resumed listening as said wizard spoke up once more.

"Will not kill, torture or  _permanently_  injure students or staff with the menacing  _intent_  to harm – or purposefully incite  _others_ to do the same.

Will not practice the Dark Arts with consequences for others or draw others into practising it.

Will not leave the premises without  _consulting_  Albus Dumbledore beforehand.

Will not participate in the smuggling of dark artefacts into the school that could cause harm to students or staff.

Will not inform any students or other teachers that I am a Dark Lord.

Will not inform _anyone_  that I am from the future.

Will not open the Chamber of Secrets again," Tom finished, his eyes lingering on the parchment.

Albus took a pointless sip of his tea. He had the distinct feeling that his proposition was about to be shot down once again.

Tom was oddly fond of nit-picking, he mused. While it was exasperating beyond measure, it was also in no way surprising.

"I will concede to most of these points, but one sentence worries me," Tom said, not sounding worried at all.

"Which one?" Albus asked him calmly, unruffled in the face of his discontent.

Tom Riddle regarded him as one would a particularly challenging politician. "Your insistence that I refrain from teaching the Dark Arts."

Albus tapped a finger against his teacup. "How can that cause you worry? The Dark Arts can be damaging. Admittedly, I've agreed to let you handle your own practice, applied to your unfortunate proficiency, but I would like you to refrain from teaching any others."

Tom surprised him by letting out a mild chuckle. "And let the few unfortunate souls who experiment  _kill_  themselves as they desperately grapple to understand what they're dealing with? How delightfully cruel of you," he grinned viciously at him, and Albus was eerily reminded of Gellert.

He saw the manipulation for what it was, but the words resonated with him nonetheless. The insinuation that his students were surely making grave mistakes in the absence of proper guidance concerned him.

"You cannot stop young witches and wizards from pursuing power if they're determined to do so. You know this."

He did.

"Furthermore, I've heard that prohibition only magnifies the allure," Tom added, looking way too pleased for Albus' peace of mind.

He sent the Dark Lord an expression filled with a heavy mixture of anger and resignation. "I don't like this. Is it your  _intention_  to teach?"

"I feel I have some responsibility, you could say. Additionally, I just hate to see potential wasted. This is a school after all."

Albus scowled. "The potential for the Dark Arts, you mean? Cultivating such talent doesn't sound particularly appealing to me."

"Every branch of magic, Albus. Why should anyone limit themselves so?" Tom inquired as he crossed out the sentence. The implied altruism behind his intentions was nearly laughable, and in no way believable.

"As to avoid becoming insane."

Tom looked exceedingly unimpressed with him.

"Therein lies my point. Without proper guidance, young dark wizards and witches make unbearably poor decisions and the likelihood of them maintaining any sort of mental health is therefore minimal," Tom countered, finishing his tea.

Albus put down his own empty cup and sighed in frustration, refilling both their cups from the pot on the small table between them.

"These discussions, while annoyingly backwards, have somehow also managed to be bizarrely informative," Albus concluded.

"Shall we go over the list again?"

The professor sighed once more, took off his glasses, polished the lenses with the hem of his sleeve and prepared himself to rework the vow once again.

They hadn't even gotten to Albus' part of the deal, yet.

01101101 01110101 01110011

"I want justice for the death you caused, Tom."

It was a testament to his control that he didn't roll his eyes at his life-long nemesis. The way Albus Dumbledore was looking at him, eyes filled with such familiar resolve, was pulling at strings in his subconscious he didn't want to reacquaint himself with.

His instincts were telling him to – react? A lifetime of seeing Albus as the main obstacle for his success had left him with a distinct feeling of displeasure and rage whenever he looked at the barmy wizard.

But Tom had more control than that – now.

He knew what mattered at the moment.  _At this time._  Albus Dumbledore was undoubtedly an enemy, not because he'd committed any actions against Tom – yet – but because of his complete opposition to Tom's existence in general.

Albus didn't trust him on principle. Tom was a  _dark wizard,_  and shamelessly indifferent about it, but Tom was also simultaneously everything Albus hated and disagreed with.

Albus' open disdain would surely provide a nice contrast to the monotony of his daily life here, and he wondered where their newfound affiliation would ultimately take them.

Regardless, they both knew that in order to achieve what they wanted, they had to survive the next couple of years in each other's company, one way or another.

Tom idly wondered what Albus intended to do with all this time.

"Ah," he responded, making another note on the parchment. "Suppose you mean little Miss Warren?"

Albus didn't deign to respond – the answer was obvious. He looked notably frustrated by Tom's apathy.

Tom twirled the quill dexterously between his fingers, slowly growing restless.

"I take it you don't think justice has been served? I've received several death sentences, as you know," Tom reminded derisively. Albus put down his cup and looked at him seriously.

"Do you regret your crimes, or only your mistakes?"

Tom raised an eyebrow, mildly incredulous. "You're insinuating that a punishment shouldn't fit the crime, but the corresponding lack of remorse," he stated, pointing the quill in the direction of his transfiguration teacher, who leaned back and crossed his arms self-righteously.

"A punishment isn't very effective if it doesn't produce any results," Albus asserted.

"What you're describing is torture, Albus."

Dumbledore looked insulted that Tom would in any manner imply that he would torture anyone, but Tom wasn't buying it.

The Dark Lord knew what kind of person Albus Dumbledore was and recognized that even if his roads were always paved with good intentions, they were often painful to walk. Albus might yet be unaware of this pattern of his, but Tom knew the wizard had acknowledged and embraced it fully in the future.

Tom's other eyebrow joined the first, staring at the virtuous fool in front of him.

"It is punishment until the person breaks and gives you what you want."

Nothing else needed to be said, because Albus' collar-length beard twitched tellingly, signalling Tom's small victory of the hour.

Albus massaged his forehead, looking at him with exasperation.

Tom continued, undaunted. "While very satisfying – believe me, I would know – that isn't what you want, is it?"

A moment went by while Albus  _glowered_  at him.

"You carry a certain kind of wisdom with you, Tom… in a way exposing your _real_ age. While your insight is exceedingly  _morbid_  – you are wise nonetheless," Albus told him, sounding pensive. "I won't pretend to take all your advice to heart, but I'll bear it in mind," he promised graciously.

Albus twirled his wand at the pot and replenished its contents with fresh hot water. A small bag of citrusy-tasting tea from the muggle world floated into the pot, whereafter their teacups were refilled, Albus adding his customary four sugars.

Tom thought adding any additional ingredients to a tea ruined what the herbs were supposed to accomplish on their own, but he'd already tried and failed to win that discussion. The deputy headmaster was resolute.

They both resettled and Albus continued. "I will –  _concede_ , that you are, to a certain extent, correct. I cannot force you to repent your crimes… and spending virtually your whole life in a sea of madness and death is a fate I wouldn't wish for my worst enemy," he finished, tone regretful.

Tom taunted him idly with a toast. "How kind of you, Albus. I'm both flattered and touched at your sentimentality."

The fool had the _nerve_ to twinkle his eyes at him. "I also see that I have to get used to your new flare for sarcasm. Age suits you, Tom."

Tom studiously ignored him.

"To summarize, you will agree to  _not_  having me arrested for the murder as long as I am a student of this school," the dark wizard continued, and Albus sighed in disappointment.

The professor reluctantly nodded. No doubt he'd be waiting for the chance to do so as soon as it presented itself, however.

"Also – you will let me use your Floo in your office if I have errands outside the castle, provided I can take care of my own alibi and that I don't knowingly commit any crimes in relation to what we have specified in my part of the vow. No smuggling dark artefact into the school, no homicide with the  _intent_  to murder and no 'causing significant harm' to students or staff for no reason," Tom continued undeterred, reading off their list of Albus' concessions.

The Gryffindor head of house agreed unenthusiastically to the last point on the list, doubtlessly lamenting that he could only bargain for the safety of his students and colleagues. Fortunately for Albus, Tom had no intention on committing any murder sprees – the mere thought of the foolishness having him wince internally. Even so, he'd refused to allow the restrictive limitation of committing _harm_  to extend beyond Hogwarts. Albus had agreed with palpable hesitancy.

He had to, or else Tom refused to agree with the imposed ban on smuggling dark artefacts or Albus' insistence that he required prior notice of his departures.

Both were aware that Tom could leave at any time he pleased, so this worked out for both of them. Tom would receive an easier exit and Albus would be made peripherally aware of his movements. Tom wouldn't be obligated to inform Albus where he went or what he did, but he would be required to tell him for how long he planned to stay away, for practicality's sake.

"And if I am to keep The Chamber closed, then you'll need to provide me with a substitute place to conduct my research." Albus nodded. He'd explained his desire to further his research and Albus, as the avid alchemist he was, had expressed his interest.

"What of the beast?" Albus suddenly asked, blue eyes looking to him inquisitively.

The corner of Tom's mouth quirked up. "Ah… Yes, I suppose you would be curious. I'm afraid you cannot meet her."

"Why is that? It is trapped in The Chamber, isn't it? Unless you release it – her?"

Tom hummed agreeably. He saw no reason to withhold this information, since only  _he_  had access to The Chamber. "Salazar's beast was the Queen of Serpents, Albus. One look in her eyes and your life is forfeit," he informed him. His lips then formed a wide smile. "Unless you're adamant, in which case we can take our chances."

"…A Basilisk! Of course," Albus muttered in realization, clearly disturbed  _and_  fascinated. "How old?"

Mildly disheartened, Tom dropped his smile and considered his question. "I am not quite sure, to be honest. It might've been Salazar's original beast, or a descendant thereof. Though considering a Basilisk is made from a toad nesting on a chicken's egg, which I've been told is justifiably illegal in Europe, their breeding habits might be insufficiently investigated."

Tom sighed nostalgically. "I believe she was approximately fifteen meters…? It's been fifty years since I've laid my eyes on her. She was a magnificent creature indeed," he praised. "It is quite the shame that I will have to wait," Tom bemoaned. Albus let out a hum.

"Would you concede to slaying her?"

"It would be such a waste. You are aware that she's there as a defence for the school?"

Albus' expression was flat. "You are the only person capable of commanding her – and so you have."

Tom smiled predatorily. "Then I suppose you have even greater use of my talents, do you not? What if Gellert comes here, Albus? Wouldn't a Basilisk come in handy?"

The man looked at him apprehensively, probably wondering if Tom was hinting at an eventual attack from said Dark Lord based on his knowledge of the future or was merely attempting to scare him.

"But at what price?"

"Now you're asking the right questions," Tom stated.

01110100 00100000 01101011

As it were, Tom discovered that Albus valued moments of rest – a monumental waste of time considering the circumstances, but the wizard had been obstinate in his persistence.

And so it was that they put away their quills and attempted to ignore each other for a time. An endeavour indisputably destined for failure, but effort was made regardless and maintained for the sake of courtesy.

A mere seventeen minutes lapsed as Tom perused his diary in an illusion of peace, the other wizard resting his eyes as he leaned against his chair. The distant hum of the rain falling on the tiles lining the windows filled the office that had otherwise been the place of raised voices and caustic remarks.

His eyes roved over the notes he'd taken on the way to Hogwarts. Simple corrections to arrays and equations his younger self had thought  _perfect_. As his eyes perceived the symbols, his mind perused the information gleaned from books long since read and studied. So deep was his concentration, that Tom was surprised to find himself jostled into reality by a pointed mention of his name.

He removed his gaze from his unfinished Horcrux, closed it and replaced it in his robe.

"Has your need for respite at last been satisfied?" Tom inquired rather scathingly. Albus raised a greying eyebrow at his attitude, knowing it hadn't been that long at all.

"I have found myself during constant duress these past many hours. Forgive me if I desire just a smidgen more time. Your magic doesn't exactly inspire any kind of tranquillity."

"It is not supposed to."

Albus hummed vaguely in agreement, studying him from his fairly relaxed position in his chair. The tiny bells hanging from the strings on his hat jingled as he tilted his head – a question on his tongue.

"Your motivations towards this candidness puzzles me, Tom," he admitted finally. "I fail to see what you've gained from explaining the full scope of your situation to me."

Tom let out a light scoff. " _Full scope?_  The wishful thoughts of a foolish man," he derided.

"I'd like an answer and not a diversion, if you please, Tom."

"It's a rather boring answer," he half-heartedly attempted.

"I'd hear it all the same," Albus insisted calmly.

Tom studied his adversary for several seconds in silence, intent on his thoughts, yet receiving nothing more than expected. Impenetrable defences and a distinctly unimpressed frown.

Sensing Albus' impatience bleed through his carefully built walls, Tom thought it prudent to cease his games for the time being. There was nothing to be gained from his silence. A measure of transparency was needed to maintain Albus' civility, and Tom would provide as he saw fit.

"Very well," he conceded. "First of all, comes the reasons we've discussed before. My clear inability to hide clashed with my want to be here."

Albus nodded serenely. "Understandable. You can imagine my worry though, knowing a Dark Lord infiltrated the school so seamlessly."

"As a matter of fact – I can," Tom confessed simply. "And another Dark Lord is at the centre of why I've decided to tell you of my incomprehensible travel to my wayward past."

"Gellert?" Albus asked as he frowned at him, clearly unhappy with his words.

"Yes, that one," Tom clarified sardonically. "Do keep up through your senility."

Albus failed to resist an eye roll.

"As I was saying," Tom continued, undaunted. "The Dark Lord Grindelwald became my main reason for revealing this to you – so you might focus on him instead of me."

"Clever, but I can't help feeling that your logic carries certain fallacies. You could've simply let me attack you and been done with me entirely, sparing you of my presence as I'd be lounging rather cosily in Azkaban."

"I could've," he admitted, fully aware of that. "But must I always repeat myself, Albus? Who would take care of  _Gellert?"_ he mocked.

Albus frowned in frustration. "I'm not entirely following – do Gellert's dealings bother you, Tom? And if so, why not fight him yourself?"

"Ah, but there lies the heart of the matter," he said, spreading his arms. "I have absolutely no intention of fighting with Gellert Grindelwald, unless he directly provokes me to do so. I've said as much before."

A brief flash of confusion stole across Albus' face before it disappeared.

"I see... but why are you adamant that I fight him, instead of just letting him do as he pleases? Chaos is a rather compelling mistress of yours, isn't it?"

"I compel chaos, not the other way around. It is when you give yourself into the madness that is complete and utter uncontrollable chaos that you lose grip with the tenuous string representing everything you are. Dark Magic courts chaos, but  _we_  are the seducers – not the seduced. That is how it must be."

Albus let out a hum as he stroked his beard, the crow's-feet around his eyes crinkling further. "Fascinating... But you neglected to answer me once again, Tom. Why can't you let him be?"

"Would you like me to?" Tom inquired lazily.

"I would prefer if you left everything be," Albus told him with absolute honesty. There could be no doubt about the sincerity of this particular statement and the words caused Tom's expression to darken considerably, though a devilish smile stretched his lips.

"That rather sounds like an invitation for suicide, Albus. I'll have to decline, as the very thought of death disgusts me on a fundamental level, most of all the ridiculous notion of  _suicide._ "

Albus' expression turned affronted. "I would never!"

"I'm sure," he drawled blandly. "Nevertheless, to answer your question; I realize that your old friend is a nuisance in the most basic meanings of the word and if I let you be carted off to Azkaban – even if I let him be  _for now_  – he would eventually graduate from a nuisance into a problem.  _My_ problem – and I'd rather like to avoid unnecessary problems if at all possible. I have quite enough of that as it stands."

"You don't think he's a problem  _now_?" Albus asked incredulously.

"Not my problem, no," Tom heard himself repeat, the smile falling off his lips.

"So, if I understand you correctly – and do forgive me my suspended disbelief – you need a willing  _hero_  to pave the way for you," Albus concluded, crossing his arms tiredly and not with a little bit of impunity. Tom's lips turned downwards at the corners, the question mildly offensive to his ears.

"Don't put words in my mouth, Albus. You're taking out the garbage, nothing more. Grindelwald will amount to nothing and you will assure it."

"For you."

"For yourself. For your students. For the wizarding world. Take your pick of the bunch – I do not care for your reasons."

"And so, you've told me of your situation to force me into an agreement, knowing I'd only consent to cease my hostility if I understood the impossibility that is your presence. To keep me – admittedly  _both_  of us – out of Azkaban. To redirect Gellert's attention where you believe they ought to be. Exposing yourself to conceal yourself more thoroughly," Albus analysed contemplatively.

"I'll admit I'm vaguely impressed by your forethought, though your choice of diversion and your continued frankness doesn't exactly fill me with confidence regarding your hypothetical sanity. We're enemies, Tom. Perhaps not in the same sense as my position with Gellert, but enemies nonetheless. By exposing yourself to this degree and limiting our agreement to a paltry few years, you've allowed for this information to be public in the future."

"Hm," Tom agreed absently, his gaze moving to the windows once more.

"People will hound you regardless of what crimes can be pinned on you, once I reveal what you are, where you come from."

Tom spared him another look, his lips forming the beginnings of a smirk.

"And they will be as confounded as you are," he said, causing Albus to scowl slightly in response. Tom's smirk widened at the reaction. "All I need is time, Albus. That's all I've ever needed."

Silence ensued and nothing more was said on the matter. They steadily resumed their negotiations.

01101110 01101111 01110111

After finally agreeing on a draft, the time was approximately five p.m. and they'd been involuntarily sequestered in Dumbledore's office since seven a.m. that morning. Both were tired beyond belief after nearly ten hours of heated debates and countless hectic revelations.

People were no doubt wondering where they were, not that Tom particularly cared, but Albus insisted he needed to reappear in person sometime that day.

Albus mentioned he'd postponed a meeting with headmaster Dippet without providing a reason for his absence, so attending the evening meal had become their end goal to avoid suspicion.

Tom finished applying the spellwork to the parchment under Dumbledore's watchful eye, his hand performing a final loop with his wand to tie in the remaining enchantments of the contract.

After much debate on rationale and security, they'd decided that the simplest way to conduct the vow was to make a secrecy contract to contain it, as well as conceal it. Neither of them would be able to talk about the vow and the details of their compromises would therewith be protected.

If any of them needed to mention their agreement at all, the largely harmless contract would suffice – the Unbreakable Vow effectively obscured.

Cleverly, the contract itself wouldn't impose any penalties beyond a mild bout of pain. This enabled the contract to aid them by providing a critical warning system for whenever they'd be close to breaking one of the clauses of the contract, before the vow itself would punish them. Both Tom and Albus were aware that this allowed them the elbow-room needed to test the limits of the vow, but inflexibility agreed with neither of them and for the sake of both of their magical cores – it had to be done.

To succeed on a short-term basis, Albus would have to hold off alerting his contacts in the ministry and ICW of his existence, and Tom would need to refrain from attracting any more untoward attention.

Naturally, this depended on Tom keeping a really low profile.

But that had been Tom's intention from the beginning. Albus was, in truth, the one with the genuine issues in this deal between them. Tom had made sure he wouldn't be agreeing with anything that went directly against his short-term plans, but Tom was sure Albus' own plans and expectations were undergoing radical changes.

As of this moment, Tom considered himself a couple of steps ahead of his old teacher.

On paper, the list of Tom's limitations seemed more severe. Albus had thought the quantity of the limitations he could impose was key to restraining him – the more shackles, the better. However, even though Tom had made a show out of his nit-picking, he'd still managed to maintain and create certain necessary loopholes, that the fool hadn't seen through.

If he had, he would've surely stopped it.

Albus' inability to read his mind made predicting Tom's objectives an uphill battle – and he'd undoubtedly known that entering the discussions.

Truthfully, it had all been about picking one's battles.

But Tom was not under any circumstances going to underestimate Albus Dumbledore. If Tom could create ways around their vow, so could he. Of that – he was absolutely certain.

It was evident in the way neither of them had ever proposed any clauses of honouring the intentions behind the vow itself or specifically promising not to deceive the other. Adding such a thing would've limited them both unbearably and neither of them had the power to enforce it.

Again, this situation wasn't ideal, but it was the best possible outcome for him. If Tom wanted to reside at Hogwarts and research in relative safety, considering his very  _mortal_ state, then this had to happen.

They signed the contract.

Albus called a house elf once again, but this time to officiate the vow. Tom wasn't exactly thrilled by this, but he supposed an elf would be less challenging to convince. Moreover, Albus agreed that the critter would be Obliviated, so Tom swallowed his consternation and held out his hand, the small being observing them nervously.

They grasped hands and Tom noted absentmindedly that he'd never been in direct contact with Albus Dumbledore in any life before this moment. With luck, it would also be the last time.

Albus gently coached the trembling house elf – prompting it to commence the bonding. The elf nodded at the wizard and its interim master, stammering out the incantation.

A glowing golden tendril of magic slithered out between their fingers and started to entangle their grip, tight in its severity.

"…S-Sirs can begin…" the elf _, Pinkey,_  announced tremulously.

The wizards' grip tightened considerably as the Unbreakable Vow began to demand its completion – the strings of magic extending like barbed vines around their forearms.

Albus looked him in the eyes, fearlessly – as always, and Tom didn't hesitate.

"I,  _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ , solemnly swear to uphold the directions of this contract, signed by myself and  _Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_  on this day, until noon the 25th of June 1945."

Tom's mouth twitched as the tendrils' restriction increased, leaving a strange kind of stinging ache in its wake.

"I,  _Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,_  solemnly swear to uphold the directions of this contract, signed by myself and  _Tom Marvolo Riddle_  on this day, until noon the 25th of June 1945."

"So mote it be," they spoke.

Their eyes were locked on each other as the elf finalized the vow, snapping its fingers and dispersing the golden tendrils. The lines dissolved into their skin, the discolouration from the pressure slowly fading thereafter – but not completely.

A reminder of their bargain today.

As he observed Albus obliviating the poorly creature, Tom let his feelings of satisfaction course through him.

'Finally – something went according to plan.'

00100000 01101000 01101111

It was late at night in Horizon Alley Friday the 3rd of September – the law office of M. X. Nott currently closed for business.

Sitting in his customary seat was Marcellus Nott, the host of the meeting. The well-dressed, albeit rather stocky magical lawyer, looked on edge – a likely consequence of his present company.

'He's never been comfortable during meetings with Tiberian,' Perseus Parkinson thought in explanation, faintly amused. He took a moment to study said wizard, craning his neck slightly for a better view of his old friend.

Tiberian Malfoy had his blonde head resting against the back of his seat, seemingly at peace.

Perseus smiled internally at the notion.

The thought that Tiberian could ever be at peace with anything sounded ridiculous, even to him.

The door to the room opened suddenly and Alcander Nott himself walked through, his outer robes folded neatly on his arm as he approached them, a thoughtful look on his face – but nonetheless healthy.

"Good evening, brother," the man greeted Marcellus first, receiving a wide grin from said brother.

It would seem Alcander had managed to overcome his recent bout of sickness, Perseus noted as the Nott patriarch made himself comfortable in the only armchair at the table available to him.

Alcander looked around him, his narrow eyes taking in Perseus, Marcellus and Tiberian, who seemed to have resumed his interest in the happenings around him.

"Is there any particular reason that you've neglected to invite the Blacks, Dolohovs or the Rosiers to this little soiree of ours?" Alcander inquired, looking specifically to Perseus, as he'd been the one to convene the meeting.

Surprisingly, Tiberian was the one to answer.

"The topic of this discussion is too controversial for their ears." Which yes – was quite unusual, considering that their internal group since the beginning of their forays into politics had always consisted of a coalition between the Malfoy, Black, Rosier, Nott, Dolohov and Parkinson families, with secondary support from other families on occasion.

Alcander scoffed sceptically in response, the former pleasantness effectively evaporated.

A couple of house elves were fluttering about, bringing in fine china, candles and small bites of food and fruits.

Perseus gestured vaguely for the house elf to his right to fill his teacup, barely looking at it as it did so. The elves didn't say a peep, and soon they were out.

Perseus picked up his teacup, took a sip and then nodded to Marcellus. "Thank you for letting us make use of your office, Marcellus."

Marcellus Nott realigned his robes as he grinned, looking quite proud of the gratitude. He glanced shortly to his elder brother and back before answering. "You are most welcome!"

Tiberian Malfoy's hairline was steadily escaping his forehead, but the strict looking man still managed to look appropriately dangerous just sitting there.

The Malfoy family held an inordinate amount of power at present, their influence stretching farther than most realised – and few appreciated. Furthermore, the wizard heading the family possessed an astounding seven seats in the Wizengamot. Not to mention his wife, that currently acted as the undersecretary to the head of the Department of Justice, privy to information that was most precious to them.

Tiberius' formidable political ability went without saying, though it was repeated often enough. He'd carried the torch for many Isolationist legislation movements since he'd taken over from his own father, most of which had been implemented – if carried successfully past the Integration party.

Nowadays, it was known that if one desired a certain position, promotion or otherwise, then establishing a favourable connection with a Malfoy was a guaranteed benefit. Their fortune, power and legacy carried far in their society, which indeed made them a fickle lot to please.

And though Perseus acknowledged this, he did not summon Tiberian to fortify his favour.

He was in need of critical input.

Perseus had studied his son's findings during the last couple of days and had cross-examined them with muggle newspapers his house elf had pilfered from around London– and had, absurdly, found that there was ground for his analysis.

The Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald was most certainly looking for something, but what that  _was_  wasn't important. That wasn't what was had prompted his interest _._

No, what mattered was that a discernable pattern had _finally_  emerged.

A pattern that hadn't been possible to clearly discern since no one had thought to investigate the possibility that Grindelwald was cooperating with his own – allegedly – worst enemy.

The filthy muggles – of all things.

Perseus was right to question this because it hardly made sense in regard to the Dark Lord's infamous goals.

Nonetheless, it wasn't difficult to conclude that the Dark Lord was looking for something. That much was certain. It wasn't even that much of a chore to deduce what kind of targets he favoured.

What was really tickling his mind, and what he needed his associates' input on was; how come the ICW hadn't involved themselves?

The German and Russian ministries especially would be crying for their intervention – but nothing. No one knew of this.

Obviously, the ICW had allocated endless resources towards apprehending the dark wizard, but all of their aims in connection to said arrest were usually made public knowledge. This wasn't.

The number of dead muggles this had already resulted in was staggering. It was beyond puzzling.

The ICW wasn't acting in the interest of the muggles, which was usually their method of operation aside from wizarding welfare.

Why?

"Some of you already know what I'll be talking to you about," he started, sending a significant stare at Tiberian. "But I'm here to fill in the rest of you."

He looked to Alcander, addressing his earlier concerns. "The reason the Rosiers specifically have been excluded from this meeting is due to their relation to the Dark Lord Grindelwald."

Marcellus squinted at his brother. "I don't remember hearing that that family supported him."

"They don't," Tiberian spoke, severely. "But their eldest son does. He's currently participating as his  _henchman_ ," he snarled disdainfully.

"I see…" Marcellus nodded, understanding the implications of this. If the family wasn't behind the decision, then publicly the family wasn't behind the son. But nevertheless, to avoid biased commentary and possible leaks due to their involvement, the Rosiers weren't optimal for this discussion.

"And the Blacks and Dolohovs?" Alcander asked.

Perseus sighed lightly, eating a small pastry. "Catarina Dolohov couldn't make it, and as for the Blacks? – I simply don't trust their judgement in this," he said simply, taking over for Tiberian who resumed glaring at everyone in the room – as was his style.

Alcander gave him a sideways look that bespoke his need for elaboration, so Perseus indulged him.

"They don't support Grindelwald – but they support his  _ideals._  You could consider them neutral, in a sense. They simply desire that everything runs its course, which is a philosophy that I can't get behind."

The general principle that drove Grindelwald's campaign was the notion that the Statute of Secrecy stifled the global magical community, and that it, therefore, should be abolished completely. In addition, the Dark Lord was convinced that wizards were made to rule over the muggles as their superiors, and while the thought of global wizard supremacy was a tantalizing thought, most pureblood wizards in Britain considered the notion completely absurd. Their party was the  _Isolationist_  party, which implied complete separation. Dedicating time and effort on _muggles_  was out of the question.

Alcander seemed satisfied with that explanation, but Marcellus looked quizzical.

"Marcellus," Perseus started, "I have need of your legal expertise." The man nodded in answer, crossing his arms confidently. Tiberian was observing the portly man as one would a particularly poor spy who somehow still managed to accomplish his goals.

Perseus regarded them all, before swishing his wand lightly, causing pieces of parchment to float towards the other men in the room. They grabbed them and started reading.

The parchments were a compressed version of Pericles' work, with Perseus' edits in relevance to today's topic of discussion.

Silence consumed the fireplace-lit room for a while, until Marcellus coughed uneasily, glancing at his brother once again. Perseus wished the man would stop relying on his brother's guidance for once in his life.

"And you believe this?" Alcander suddenly asked Tiberian, who, looking sourly, nodded very shortly. Alcander hummed contemplatively, then glanced to his brother.

"What do you make of this, brother?"

Marcellus squinted at the parchment. Everyone knew that the man needed a moment to collect his thoughts, as he was far from slow – just exceedingly thorough. They'd worked with him often enough to recognize the difference.

A couple of minutes went by before Marcellus spoke. "This suggests a level of complacency I hadn't expected…" he paused. "Or possibly an act of deliberate prevarication?" he muttered, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully behind his reading glasses.

Marcellus' voice adopted a more serious tone, one that was always reserved for his work. They paid attention.

"If your findings are indeed correct – and I wouldn't presume otherwise – then the International Confederation of Wizards must be hiding one of three things," he started, closely studying the details.

"The ICW doesn't, in reality, care about the muggles, and therefore find the apparent muggle infestation in our war, and their subsequent slaughter, a negligible factor. "

Perseus himself grimaced slightly at that theory. While certainly a possibility, it wasn't a very plausible one.

Tiberian waved his hand impatiently, prompting Marcellus to continue.

The man hurriedly did so. "Considering the _improbability_  of that – it is possible that the ICW is, in fact, unaware of this correlation," he said, but even Marcellus sounded sceptical.

The stout lawyer shook his head, frowning at the parchment. "No. I don't think the largest alliance between wizarding nations in our history could be so blind. They have access to intelligence from every member states' Auror offices, including select guilds and magical facilities, making their ignorance an impossibility."

A pause ensued. Tiberian's hand rested on his chin as he regarded the lawyer in the room. "So tell me,  _Nott,_  what is your conclusion?"

The man once again eyed his brother for a split second, before looking back to the Malfoy patriarch. "I believe the ICW is purposefully withholding this information as to not hurt their propaganda efforts."

Alcander nodded, looking at his teacup. "Dozens of wizards and witches all around mainland Europe have perished in these attacks of his… if the people found out that muggles made it possible, then their pro-muggle agenda would suffer a fatal setback," he noted, taking a sip of his tea.

"Not to mention the muggle casualties. The mudbloods would riot against them. Their families are after all more affected by this war of theirs," Perseus added dismissively, his lips forming a heartless smile. "If the ICW published this, then there'd be a cry to meddle in the war – and it would be the ordinary magical citizens who would take point in the demonstrations," he said.

"The ICW doesn't allow magical interference in the world of the muggles," Tiberian voiced, his icy eyes spearing Marcellus, making the man visibly redden.

"Indeed…" Marcellus muttered. "However, that is not all," he added.

"In order to withhold this information, the ICW must've cooperated with several ministries, the German, Polish and Netherlandish ministries to name a few. Censorship of this magnitude requires immense dedication – and considering the very possible  _warfare_ that could break out if this became public, not to mention the level of  _corruption_ inherent to this, I wouldn't be surprised if the concealment of the current situation is their very  _first priority_."

The Malfoy nodded curtly, sipping his tea. "It would require immense resources. And it would be a  _waste_  of resources if someone were to expose them." The others nodded. To the Malfoy, resources were  _everything._

"Their plan is hanging on a thread as it is," Perseus said, holding the parchment up for show. "If it can be displayed this easily, I'm quite frankly surprised it's not public knowledge already."

"Yes, it seems that way. No doubt several ministries, our own included, are bidden to censor these attacks so no connections can be made. From your edits, it seems a total of 4 out of 12 incidences have been covered in actual newspapers in the wizarding world," Marcellus agreed, then looked to Perseus.

"Did Pericles smuggle this information out of the archives on your orders?" he asked, but Perseus denied it.

"No," he said. "I didn't ask him to. He started the investigation without my say-so."

Tiberian let out a sound of idle curiosity. "For what purpose?"

Perseus sighed and sipped his tea, looking at his Malfoy colleague and friend of many years.

"I didn't believe him, initially. He'd somehow gotten hold of a  _muggle newspaper_ , which he then claimed was relevant. Naturally, I thought it was utter nonsense," Perseus explained. Alcander scoffed in agreement.

"But then he insisted on making his case – and so he did. And he succeeded. I was convinced."

"Impressive," Tiberian commented, not sounding particularly impressed, but Perseus appreciated the sentiment.

Perseus gestured to the parchment once again. "He didn't see the full picture, however. He was more occupied by the implications of Grindelwald cooperating with muggles, than with the venues that this could open for me – us."

"He's still young," Marcellus pointed out affably.

"Wasn't he a Ravenclaw? Not ambitious enough, then?" Alcander questioned, sounding slightly distracted.

Tiberian said nothing.

"His only ambition should be to do what I say," Perseus stated uncompromisingly, and Marcellus grimaced.

"Back to the topic at hand," Tiberian said then, taking control of the meeting.

"Using this information that Perseus was able to gather, we now have a choice to make."

The atmosphere in the room suddenly felt rather stifling.

"We've long been aware of the ICW's imposition on our ability to legislate according to our agendas, and for the good of wizarding Britain." They all nodded.

The Malfoy scowled at them. The man never looked happy, but Perseus knew this to be Tiberian Malfoy's more-than-not satisfied scowl.

"If we want any hope of reclaiming our independence, and to rid ourselves of the outrageous pro-muggle laws that have been passed the past twenty years, then we need to force the ICW to change them… or leave the ICW and become self-reliant on our own system, like MACUSA."

"Brilliant," Marcellus commented, grinning widely. Alcander looked vaguely excited as well, and Perseus nodded, having proposed the possibility to Tiberian earlier, who'd agreed.

"But one doesn't simply leave the ICW. They wouldn't allow it – the sanctions alone would impede us insufferably. Politically, it would also be immensely embarrassing for the magical state of Turkey – who still, after seeking acceptance into the organization for past 124 years, still isn't applicable."

Alcander snorted unattractively and Tiberian shot the man a look that said he found the disturbance entirely undignified.

The magical state of Turkey was – unfortunately – not living up to the ICW's strict standards of magical safety regulation, specifically concerning the use of dark magic – necromancy in particular. However, due to ingrained cultural issues, the state couldn't manage to do away with the problem, and in some cases outright refused to act, despite the ICW's encouragement.

"Holding our intel against the ICW is risky, but with a big enough coalition in our ministry, and the ICW's interest in maintaining their agenda in the rest of their member states, we can hopefully come through without too much drama," Alcander then commented, maintaining an easy smile.

"Some information would have to be revealed, however," Marcellus insisted, before commencing a short discussion with his brother on the procedure of negotiating with and/or exiting an international confederation and the limitations it could also bring. It was highly speculative at this point, without research having been made on the topic.

"Gentlemen," Perseus interrupted, gathering their attention again. "I recommend we think about this, and then conduct another meeting in a month or so. It'll provide me the time I need to compile a complete list of transgressions, and it'll allow Marcellus to research which allowances we have if we follow through on this."

Every wizard nodded, but Tiberian chose to speak up once more.

"I agree that this is promising," he paused, looking at Perseus. "But I recommend bringing in several more families soon, to amass the support we'll need for a positive receival in the Wizengamot chambers."

Perseus sighed heavily.

Tiberian was referring to the other twenty- _five_  sacred families, those with the most seats – of whom some were sadly dormant.

He agreed it was necessary, but he also wondered how Tiberian planned on convincing the Integrationists, or the Assimilationists for that matter, of the legitimacy of their case.

He supposed time would tell.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be updating again at the end of the month, if I’ve survived my examinations. As always – reviews are encouraged!

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews and kudos will be appreciated! - I'm open for answering questions. :)


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